


a thousand times i've seen this road

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Brandy - Freeform, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Chef Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, OSHA violations, Protective Bucky Barnes, This fic is very long, Wine, warning: overuse of garlic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Bucky's just doing a favor for Natalia, training her friend Clint to help him out inThe Red Room'skitchen. It ain't cause Clint's easy to train, easy on the eyes, and makes Bucky's kitchen run more smoothly than it ever has before. And it ain't a crush. It's just a favor. The guy seems like he has one foot out the door anyway; is it really worth it to get invested?A story about opening up, found family, putting down roots, a little bit of romance, and garlic. So much garlic.





	1. hit the ground running

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. So this fic is different from what I usually post. Normally everything turns into complicated plot-driven suspense under my fingers, but this -- this has very little plot. This is a comfort-fic, meant to be heavy on detail and setting and feeling, to explore the characters in this setting and also make you very, very hungry. It is half a love letter to Winterhawk and half a love letter to cooking, really, my adoration for excessive garlic shows up like every other page. I'm hoping The Red Room is somewhere you can really smell, and taste, and imagine.
> 
> 2\. I am a very good cook. I am not a professional chef. Bucky cooks kind of like me, and we're just gonna run with that because this is MY comfort fic. I'm sure things work differently in a real restaurant, but this is The Red Room, and that's how it works.
> 
> 3\. Title from _No Roots_ by Alice Merton, which is **such a Clint song**. Honestly, most of this is Bucky's POV, but the story's really about Clint.

Bucky knows Natalia is sitting on the counter right next to the door, at the edge of his vision, but he isn’t ready to look up yet. She’s at least found him a semi-decent dishwasher to help make it through the evenings, but Bucky doesn’t trust the kid with his good cast iron yet, and he has to give it the final wipe down. Plus, Natalia knows her way around, and Bucky knows if he ignores her for long enough — yep, there she is, shifting around to reach into the cupboard above her left shoulder and pull out Bucky’s top-shelf whiskey.

It isn’t a secret where he keeps it; Natalia’s the boss, and she’s the one who provides it, but it’s _his._ She never drinks it without him. Natalia’s particular like that.

Bucky opens the steaming dishwasher and pulls out two of their rocks glasses, gently running them under cooling water until they’ll be able to handle ice without breaking. The freezer still has half a bag of ice, which is convenient; he sets them on the counter next to Natalia’s thigh.

“I need to ask you a favor,” she says bluntly, in the tone that means he’s already agreed to do the favor whether he likes it or not, and that’s such a Natalia thing that Bucky considers arguing against it on sheer principle. Then again, he knows Natalia holds her favors both owed and given close to her chest, spending them like transactions, and only when she has to. He knows she waits to ask until she knows all the variables and has already chosen the best possible outcome.

He grunts, and she pours his whiskey into the glasses, a healthy pour. They’ve both been in this business a little too long to really get drunk anymore, but he appreciates her offering nonetheless.

“I have a friend in town for an unforeseeable length of time.” She picks up her glass, sips, and sighs in appreciation. They don’t always take the time for the good things any more, but they both still know what they’re like. “He needs a job, and I’ll need you to train him in the kitchen.”

Bucky carefully swallows and sets his glass down. He doesn’t need a new person to train on top of their usual evening rush, and the kitchen’s just barely big enough for two, but he waits in silence, letting Natalia continue.

“He has no experience in kitchens other than his own,” she says, wistfully playing with the condensation on the side of her glass. Bucky notes that her tone of voice is saying more than she is: Natalia _likes_ this guy, is _fond_ of him. “But he’s smart, although he won’t seem it, and only needs to see things once. Give him the right training and he’ll be the best sous chef you could ask for.”

Bucky hunches a little bit more and swirls his whiskey. “Makes it sound permanent,” he offers, finally. “Sous chef’s a big job.”

Natalia laughs then, that deep chuckle she does when truly amused. “If he has his way, he’ll be on his way in a month or two. If I get my way, he’ll settle in quite nicely.”

That isn’t even too bold of a statement; Natalia almost always gets her way, and the times that she hasn’t have all been attributable to literally inexplicable acts of the planet or of God. 

Bucky realizes she’s watching him, watching his silence. He and Natalia learnt how to read each other long ago, paired together in a brutal training competition, and they’re been speaking the same language ever since. “I’ll try,” he says, his opening gambit. “But I’m not letting our evening profit lines slip because I’m teaching some kid how to chop celery. Our place comes first.”

Natalia nods, which means she expected nothing less than that. “As long as training Clint comes second, I’ll be satisfied. And I think you will too.”

Bucky scowls, because he’s better at that than he is at smiling, and they clink their glasses together with a sad nostalgic sound.

———

The next day, Bucky’s a little self-conscious about everything he does. He’s gone through all kinds of school and teaching and training, some of it awful, but his opportunities to actually teach have been few and far between. Then again, he’s teaching the basics, stuff he’s known since before he even applied, tips picked up from frantic binge watches of cooking shows and extensive online video searching. What he needs immediately is support; this guy can be developed into a sous chef over time.

Nevertheless, he finds he’s talking to himself inside his head most of his shift. _Never enough garlic,_ he tells this imaginary trainee as he bangs out four cloves with the heel of his hand over the butcher’s knife. _Always add more than you think you want. Sear both sides,_ he then tells the kid, as he’s turning beautiful fresh scallops over in a sizzling olive oil, garlic, and basil mixture. _Don’t overlook it. Look for the outside to change color - there you go._

His dishwasher pops in to start scrubbing — Peter, Bucky remembers, and he has to brace himself to stop talking out loud to the kid for practice. _Keep the zucchini as evenly sized as you can cut it. We want it to cook evenly, and not overcook, because nobody likes fucking soggy zucchini._

He’s actually mumbling under his breath as he throws broth, butter, salt, pepper, and a good handful of his freshly-made salsa into the rice cooker. _The flavors get infused in the rice,_ he thinks, nearly out loud at this point. _It isn’t strong, but the subtle background flavor carries the dish._

He trims his cuts of meat, adds the stalk of the broccoli, lets the asparagus snap, all the while muttering to someone who isn’t even there yet, trying to figure out how to transfer all of this knowledge Bucky just came with, the things he’s picked up just from being around the scene. 

_Yes, you have to be sure the meat is all cooked before you start building the sauce,_ he mentality chastises someone — maybe he’s gone a bit over the line. But he’s making the base for tomorrow’s pasta sauce, and the ground beef has to be thoroughly cooked before the other shit goes in. Except garlic. And onions. Those get sautéed with the — shit, he’s talking to himself again.

By the end of his shift, he’s verbally walked himself through an entire set of Chocolate Lava Cakes - it’s Wanda’s fucking specialty, but Bucky wanted to make sure he remembers how to bake - and Peter’s managed to not ruin the one cast iron skillet he got his hands on, and Natalia slides him half of a bottle of wine along with his tips. He’s got this.

Bucky lives in a nearly-decent apartment in a nearly-decent building next to his nowhere-near-decent best friend, Steve. They’ve been best friends since they were kids, and Steve’s managed to stick close enough to Bucky even though they took different paths. Bucky went through a few brutal culinary programs and came out with Natalia and his savings in hand; Steve, in contrast, spent a leisurely time packing in every class he could take at art school before winding up on the borderline between architecture and modern art. He’s carrying the half-full bottle of wine and a bag of leftovers which was too little to save but enough to feed him and Stevie for the night. 

Bucky enjoys his job. He’s an _amazing_ chef when he has all of the time and equipment available that he could ever want; even packed into a trendy restaurant with an evening dinner rush, he still manages to be what he considers delicious quality. It certainly isn’t haute cuisine, but honestly, there’s something very rewarding about cooking specialty meals at this level.

And to be honest, he’s been in need of a good second for a while. This isn’t the easiest route, but if Natalia thinks it’ll work, Bucky’s willing to give it a chance.

———

The next night is Friday night, and predictably, they’re falling apart. The special - tilapia with a corn and black bean salsa verde and rice - is more popular than they’d expected, and the chicken breasts are waiting idly in the warming oven as Bucky pulls, seasons, and sautées the fucking fish filet again and again. He’s scrounging to make the most out of their salsa verde, because he knows they’re low on corn, and he actually sets Peter to chopping fresh tomatoes for a good half hour before releasing him to bus tables.

Fuck. The business is always unpredictable, and he and Natalia aren’t strangers to emergency, but Bucky still absolutely hates it when something goes off-balance. He’s fucking worried they’re gonna run out of tilapia, and that’s something they haven’t done since their early days running _The Red Room_ — and while the customers will likely get over it, Bucky won’t.

He’s fumbling with a can - _cans,_ jesus, he’s desperate enough for this can of black-eyed peas, trying to rinse off the salty metal taste so he can use them in the salsa verde - when his window rattles and a familiar voice is booming at him.

“Hey, Buck,” Stevie says, shit-eating grin and stupid-ass face, and Bucky’s so stressed he’s almost not even glad to see him.

“Fuck off,” he says immediately, turning to wipe his pan down with a wet rag - still hot, sure, but it takes most of the scrap off the bottom and it isn’t like he hasn’t burnt his own fingers before: it’s his fucking dead left hand. “Rough night.”

“Yeah, Sam said,” Steve says, grinning, “I’ll take three of the tilapia,” and Bucky whips the dishcloth through the air towards Steve’s head. Stevie catches it, of course, grinning, and Bucky hears a tentative voice say, “Um, hey, are you Bucky?”

He whirls, spatula upraised as if it’s a weapon, Stevie still grinning through his goddamn perfect teeth, composure shot to shit, and — there’s a literal goddamn model standing in the doorway.

It has to be an underwear model, Bucky’s mind grinds out, because the jeans are threadbare in just enough places for him to pinpoint plaid boxers beneath, and the shirt’s almost a joke. The guy’s jaw is square, but set sort of defensively, as if he’s used to having to fight rather than chat.

“Hey,” Steve says, and the shit-eating factor’s been turned up to eleven. “ _Hello.”_

“ _Out,_ Steve,” Bucky snaps, and Steve just salutes at him and pulls himself out of the window, slinking off to whatever the hell table he and Peggy must have commandeered for tonight. “Sorry for that shithead,” he says, turning back to the hobo underwear model. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” the guy says, his head sagging as his hand rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m - Tasha sent me back here? I’m Clint. Barton. Clint Barton. Natasha’s friend.”

Bucky blinks. This fuckin’ underwear model on a stick? This is Natalia’s friend who needs a favor? The guy somehow simultaneously looks forty-eight and twelve. Plus, his entire outfit is a walking food violation; one of his sneakers might not actually have a full _sole,_ and Bucky shivers a little at the thought of having to explain to an inspector the sheer amount of bare skin that’s almost no display. The guy has bandaids _everywhere._ You can’t _bleed_ in a kitchen.

_He_ doesn’t mind the bare skin, of course not, but it’s a _kitchen._

“Hi,” Clint says at him belatedly, and Bucky realizes he’s gone into shutdown mode.

“Shit,” he says, loudly, “ _fuck,_ ” and immediately leaps to the skillet with the new version of the salsa verde - thank _fuck_ it’s not burnt, they can pass this off as charred or roasted or whatever the fuck people want to hear. He tosses it in one, two, three smooth motions, then picks up two tilapia off of the plate and drops them into the cast iron pan, the pleasant note of sizzling filling the kitchen.

“Sorry?” The guy - Clint - says, and he sounds even more dejected. Bucky realizes he’s still standing in the doorway; well, he may not know fuck-all about being a chef, but at least the guy knows not to intrude in Bucky’s territory when he’s on a rampage.

“Sorry, yeah,” Bucky gets out, moving to pull out the next two tickets: chicken, yay; soup and salad; and two more fuckin’ tilapia specials, end his entire goddamn life. He passes the soup and salad off to Pietro’s screen. “I’m sure Natalia sent you back here to chat, or whatever, but it’s a really fuckin’ bad night so excuse me ‘cause I’m just focusing on keeping these meals coming out.”

“She did tell me not to come in the kitchen,” Clint admits, although he sounds a little intrigued now. “But she said I should watch.”

Bucky glances up, for a second, and is _punched_ in the gut when he meets Clint’s gaze: it’s deep, landing at a strange place where blue meets gold, flashing with humor, nearly iridescent like a kaleidoscope. Who the _fuck_ does Natalia think she is? Where the hell has she been hiding this goddamn hobo model during their friendship?

“Fuck,” Bucky says, as he hears the sizzle of the fish reach the perfect pitch where they need to be flipped. He turns back to the stovetop and catches them at the perfect moment, also turning the salsa again and adding a pinch of salt.

“Look,” he grunts out, heading to the rice cooker and loading two clean plates with an artful smear of rice, before bringing both plates over to the iron cast skillet where the fish is hissing and simmering. “I really don’t want to be a dick,” he says, although at this moment he _totally_ wants to be a dick — Clint Hobo Underwear Model Barton is throwing his concentration off, and Bucky Barnes’ll be damned before he takes a loss at a dinner service. “But I have a lot to pull together right now.” He’s breathing hard as he tosses the fish, perfectly charred, onto the plates, then tops them with his _new_ version of salsa verde. Natalia owes him a big tip for this shit.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Clint says, and it’s gone soft in a way: the same way his mouth had gone soft, as if he was more used to the defensive than the offensive. It quirks up against something weird inside Bucky that he’s gonna have to examine at a time he isn’t fucking strung out. 

“She just wanted me to see you in action, she said,” Clint continues, as Bucky rescues two flatbreads from the oven. “An’ I’m not sure what she wants me to see, so maybe you could just, like - talk to me?”

Bucky’s brain saves that tone of voice for later evaluation as he tops the flatbread pizzas with the zucchini and arugula and sends them out the window; it’s curious, plaintive, defensive, and something else weird all at once, but Bucky’s still got like seven million tilapia up on order and he does not have the mental capacity to deal with that at the moment. Talk. Wasn’t he just doing that earlier?

“Yeah, alright,” he grunts, as he shucks a new clove of garlic and then slams the heel of his hand against the knife, splintering it open. He glances up; Clint looks interested at that part, and Bucky’s stressed enough he’s not filtering, so he just starts talking. “You can use the minced garlic in a jar when we really get behind, but I’ll beat your ass for it, so nine times outta ten you’re gonna need to split and chop up garlic cloves. And a lot. Everybody loves garlic. The only people who don’t are folk like Stevie’s ma, bless her dearly departed soul, who still thought everything needed to be boiled until the day she died.”

He wipes out the cast-iron pan with a questionable-looking rag. “We don’t care about the rag, we care that the pan gets clean, okay? Temperature’ll kill any germs, so the key is to scrape out any residue that might light my face on fire while keeping the conditioning intact on the bottom. I redo this fuckin’ pan every day, I will not have you wiping out the seasoning!”

Another glance up, and Clint’s face looks like he’s choking back a million questions: he’s amused, intrigued, horrified, and somewhat weirded out by something. It’s too much for Bucky to deal with, so he snaps, “D’you at least know how to stir a skillet?”

“Yeah,” Clint drawls, and it might start reluctant but it ends confident. “What can I do?”

Bucky hustles him into the kitchen in a matter of seconds, and literally every other part of his brain wants to enjoy the fucking ragged, hole-strewn clothing on this stupid model’s body, but the rest of his head is too stubborn to lose a single dinner service. He puts a wooden spoon in the guy’s hand and gestures to a saucepan, broad with high walls and non-stick, and barks out, “Keep that from sticking until I get more in there.”

Clint nods at him, immediately prodding at the pan, which is the sauce for the chicken, which everyone is ignoring in favor of the godforsaken tilapia tonight, but Bucky doesn’t want it to start burning to the pan. The chicken are resting in the side oven, so Bucky pulls one out and sets it into the drizzle of olive oil on the bottom of his pan. “Toss like a spoonful of that sauce on there,” he orders, not even waiting to watch as he goes to toss the salsa and add a little bit more of the verde he’d whipped together this morning.

“This is usually,” he manages to get out while tossing in two more tilapia filets, “not this bugfucking crazy.”

Clint laughs, a small chuckle as if he’s afraid to participate, and keeps stirring.

“We have a set menu and three specials a night,” Bucky says, ranting at this point while he moves. “The twins manage most of the usual menu over there - their kitchen’s around that corner - and I do the specials. Which works out, except for nights like tonight, when everyone’s ordering the goddamned tilapia and the fuckin’ chicken’s gonna get dry and I’ve had to serve three different versions of the salsa because _we are out of fucking corn._ ”

Clint’s laughing openly now, and he says, “I know it really isn’t funny, but,” and Bucky decides on the spot that he might consider liking this guy if he lives through the night. Really, though, his jeans are about to _fall off his ass,_ he really needs a belt if he’s gonna be working in food service. 

Bucky kind of doesn’t want him to get a belt just yet, though. _That ass._

The chicken’s done, both sides glazed with sauce, so Bucky tosses it on the plate over some of the rice and drizzles a healthy amount of sauce over the entire thing. He adds the still-sizzling grilled asparagus and sets it in the window. 

“Tonight’s specials are the chicken, the flatbreads, and what’s apparently the best motherfucking tilapia ever seen.” He points around the kitchen, only realizing afterwards that Clint’s going to have absolutely no idea what he’s pointing to. “Look, just stand at the stove and stir anything that’s sat too long, and don’t touch my fuckin’ cast iron, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, and this time it’s a drawl that’s got some sarcastic heat in it.

Even just having somebody there to make sure the grilled salsa doesn’t overgrill itself is a huge help, and when Peter makes the mistake of popping his head in, Bucky hauls him over to the counter and sets him to dicing up another whopping pile of tomatoes. He and Clint exchange friendly hellos, although Peter’s shooting curious questioning looks at Bucky the whole time. Whatever. Peter’s a kid and a disaster but he knows how to be professional.

Flip the tilapia, season the tilapia, get the rice and the salsa: this is the rhythm of Bucky’s entire night. He’s starting to worry they’ll run out of rice, even though he’s got half a batch in one and the other is already cooking away. Chicken into the pan, oil and sauce, flip. Tilapia. Fucking tilapia. A flatbread, finally, and Bucky talks Clint vaguely through their special flatbread pizzas, but he’s well aware that every other word out of his mouth is “fuck” and he notes that Clint’s just watching him spread the sauce and carefully place the grilled zucchini and the goat cheese.

Bucky winds the night down exhausted and ready to throw every seafood dish they have into a fucking flaming dumpster, and Clint’s just there in the background, stirring pots and occasionally managing some other easy task Bucky barks at him. Natalia signals that they’ll have a staff meeting after closing instead for Family Meal, so Bucky puts on some coffee and pulls out one of Wanda’s cakes to reheat in the warming oven.

\------

“Everybody,” Natalia says, “this is Clint.”

Hobo Clint gives them a weak wave, which derails into rubbing the back of his neck again. Now that Bucky isn’t dying from a tilapia overdose he can properly take Clint in: his hair is messed in a mostly-upwards direction, his stubbled jaw is sharp, and he still has the most amazing goddamn eyes Bucky’s ever seen. His shoulders are broad, although the limp t-shirt isn’t doing much for them right now, and he’s got big hands with callused fingers. Bucky can’t really decide whether he looks delicious or pathetic, but he knows he’s intrigued. It’s a bad idea to want to bang the sous chef, but Bucky’s full of bad ideas and hasn’t ever met one he doesn’t like.

Natalia herself looks professionally excellent, red hair up in a swirl on her head and a deep blue sheath dress Bucky appreciates very much. “Clint, you’ve already met Bucky,” she starts, and Bucky gives Clint a lazy two-fingered salute. Clint looks kind of pleased at this, as if he wasn’t expecting Bucky to acknowledge him.

“Bucky’s our specialty chef, and you’ll be training with him to become his sous chef. Wanda and Pietro run our standard kitchen together.”

Wanda gives Clint a bright wave, and Pietro says, “I am twelve minutes older, so technically _I_ run the kitchen.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at Pietro. “And I have more schooling, so technically _I_ run the kitchen.”

“Technically Bucky is head chef,” Natalia points out, her voice low and amused.

Wanda and Pietro turn to Bucky, who’s happy enough to give them each a middle finger of their own.

“Peter and Kate here are one part busboy, one part kitchen assistant when needed,” Natalia continues.

“One part Bucky’s _bitch,_ ” Kate mumbles under her breath, and Bucky gives her a glare that she shrugs off by sticking her tongue out. Funny, this -- with Natalia all sleek and professional and the entire kitchen crew fucking around, Clint’s face says he really isn’t sure what to make of this.

“Sam here is our head waiter tonight.” Natalia turns to Sam with that small smile on her face, and Sam returns it before turning to Clint and shooting finger-guns at him. _Fuck_ , Bucky thinks, _some nights we really are children._

“You’ll meet the other servers as they cycle through,” Sam tells Clint, who nods. Clint has one hand in his pocket and the other is flicking nervously at his thigh. Bucky takes a moment to appreciate the thigh - or what he can see of it, and Clint’s boxers, through the holes in his pants - and then turns back to look at Natalia.

“Please give Clint a warm welcome here, and I expect you all to help him out until he learns his way. Clint and I have been friends for a long time, and I’m happy to finally bring him into the family.”

Natalia’s smile at Clint is soft, fond, and Bucky’s surprised she’s letting them all see it; Clint’s face is still a little unsure, as he glances around the room, but it also broadens into something genuine when he looks back at Natalia. 

“Bucky,” she continues, “If you can, I’d like you to come in an hour earlier and show Clint some basics that he can practice for tomorrow’s specials. Charge it as overtime, of course.”

Bucky nods. An extra hour on his feet’s gonna _suck,_ but he can probably teach Clint how to chop something without cutting his fingers off, and that’ll be nice.

Natalia waves, and everyone fucks off to finish cleaning and go home. Bucky snags Clint, his hand on a surprisingly hard bicep, and murmurs, “Hey, come with me.”

He leads Clint back into his kitchen. He isn’t wrong; Clint definitely looks a little overwhelmed. He also isn’t wrong that Clint is incredibly good-looking when he relaxes a little bit and throws Bucky a smile that’s so relieved it catches him off-guard.

“You alright?”

Clint shrugs. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a job, just for a bit. I’m a quick learner.” 

Bucky shakes his head, grinning. “I put all that time into training you, I’m not gonna let you leave.”

“Sure,” Clint says, and it’s so fucking casual that Bucky frowns and looks at him more sharply. There’s nothing he can read on Clint’s face. 

“You seem remarkably ready to go with the flow after tonight’s shitshow,” Bucky says, instead of the other four million thoughts and questions prodding his tongue.

At that Clint’s grin lights up a bit again, and he says, “You learn to do that when you’ve been where I have.”

Even with Clint smiling it’s an obvious no-go zone, so instead Bucky gestures down. “Can’t wear your comfy stuff tomorrow, it’s a kitchen hazard. Is that sneaker _busted?_ ”

Clint lifts it up in one graceful gesture to examine it. “Yep,” he says, as if it doesn't concern him that Bucky can see his fucking plaid sock through the sole. He’s balanced on one foot holding the other at an angle that would make Bucky fall over head first into the oven, carelessly prodding at the rubber. 

“We don’t dress up back here, but no holes,” Bucky tells him. “I recommend comfortable shoes until you get used to the time on your feet.”

“Oh, I’m used to that,” Clint says vaguely, and Bucky finally hones in on what Clint’s been doing all night: retreating. The guy seems to want to connect, but then backs off, and it’s fucking with Bucky. He’s always been the _just fucking say it_ type.

“Anyway,” Bucky says after a bit of a silence, “see you tomorrow. 1400.”

“Sure,” Clint says again, and he slips out the door.

———

Clint lies on his back on Natasha’s couch and stares at her ceiling.

His gut’s all twisted up with everything going on. It isn’t really fair, any of it, but he knows that he’s so far backed up shit creek that he really doesn’t have a lot of choices left. Other than slipping out of Nat’s apartment with his shitty duffel bag of belongings and taking his chances back out on the streets. 

He owes Tasha better than that.

He should have guessed that her help would come with a price. Back when they’d met, when he’d been able to help _her_ out, she’d told him enough that he should have put the pieces together. And Clint doesn’t mind paying the price for some help — it’s all he’s done his entire life, help other people do things and then paid some kind of price for their shit.

Especially with Nat; he really, really does know better.

He’s pretty proud of her, though. When they’d met she’d just left that terribly abusive internship with _nothing,_ no graduation and no certificate, scrambling - not even to make a name for herself - scrambling to make ends meet, to be able to pay off her loans so she didn’t have to go _back there_. Now she’s hooked up with Barnes, her old school friend, and they’ve built something from what sounds like absolutely nothing. The kind of thing Clint’s always dreamt of doing, even though his luck makes it impossible.

_The Red Room_ seems great. Clint knows it isn’t Nat’s dream, and probably isn’t Barnes’ dream either, but they’ve made it work: this sort of location won’t support the Michelin-star creative menu and stellar decor Clint knows Tasha wants, but it does support a higher-quality, creatively-angled, classy space to eat good food and drink good wine. And they’ve done that, from what it looks like.

Clint isn’t stupid. He knows Nat looks at him and wants to help, as much as she knows he’ll refuse any help he hasn’t specifically asked for. He’s not taking this job as a handout; he’s taking it as part of Nat’s price for sleeping on her couch, and because he’s near out of cash and can’t go anywhere new without rebuilding his funds a bit. It isn’t permanent.

Plus it sounds like they do need the help, from what Tasha’s told him. It’s not a handout job, if they already needed someone there. That makes Clint feel a little bit better about it. It’s a mutually beneficial situation. Disregarding the fact that the last time he’d held a job that had actual papers and above-the-board paychecks was at least two years ago.

He can’t depend on things. Clint knows this. If there’s anything his fucking life has taught him - any kind of lesson woven in with the beatings and the circus and the theft and the hearing aids - it’s that it’s best to be self-sufficient. Never settle. Never become used to anything. Cause that’s when family comes back to bite you in the ass.

Clint can’t see Nat doing that, but honestly, he didn’t want to picture Barney doing it either, and look what happened.

Part of him is still so fucking ashamed to be here anyway, lying on Nat’s couch under Nat’s blankets and staring at Nat’s ceiling. Clint Barton, can’t even take care of himself in a world where he’s got nobody. It was only Nat’s parting words from the last time they’d gotten together, a few months ago, that had made him pick up his sad cracked cell phone and make the call.

_I owe you, Clint, and I won’t forget. But I’d like it if you could use that favor sometime soon so I can stop worrying about it._

And so he’d called. Desperate, wet, having slept on the streets for the past three weeks, down to only one pair of jeans (the other pair he used as a towel, but they’d torn beyond repair) and a hundred bucks in his bag that he was desperate not to spend because it was his literal last. 

And now he was here, sleepless on Nat’s couch, with his first day of fucking work tomorrow.

Clint rolls over, facing into the cushions, and closes his eyes. He needs to get a little bit of sleep, at least, cause he has to get up early. He’s gotta make it to Goodwill in the morning to pick up some clothes and shoes that won’t get him fired on the first day.


	2. only waited for the marching drums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire, feelings, and Family Meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the Bad Decisions Discord convinces me to post this tonight. Enjoy!

1400 is the usual time Bucky shows up to start prep, so the next day he’s there at 1300 to work out his menu. He makes a weekly plan so that Natalia can arrange the grocery deliveries, but he leaves himself options and enough flexibility that he can still have fun with it. It’s Clint’s first day, so he wants to figure out some easy but satisfying things Clint can help with. He also never wants to cook a goddamn tilapia ever a-fucking-gain.

So Bucky decides on a chicken barbecue flatbread, a filet with cheesy mashed potatoes, and a pasta dish with sundried tomatoes and mozzarella, chicken or salmon options. It’s a good start because a lot of it can be done ahead of time, so that they only have to do the bits which make it hot and fresh.

He’s working out their flatbread dough when he hears someone at the door. It’s Natalia and Clint, their conversation a low tension Bucky feels as they walk in. He leaves the dough where it is and comes out to greet them, hands covered in flour.

“Bucky,” Natalia says as a greeting. She’s wearing jeans, a simple tee, and a leather jacket; Bucky knows from experience whatever cocktail dress she’s planning on tonight is in the bag over her arm. Natalia often comes in early to work out administrative details before _The Red Room_ opens, so this isn’t anything new.

Clint, however, is looking a bit bashful. Bucky has no idea why. His outfit nearly mirrors Natalia’s, but Bucky’s throat gets dry at the tight, dark-washed denim tight around Clint’s thighs. His black t-shirt is much snugger than yesterday’s - Bucky appreciates the pull of it across Clint’s chest - and the brown leather bomber suits him and sets off his blond hair. Bucky appreciates all of it. Bucky might appreciate a bit too much, but hey, he can look. He’s also an absolute professional. Shit. He’s probably gonna bang the sous chef. Professionally. Whatever that means.

“Nice shoes,” he says finally, once he realizes he might have been staring at Clint a bit too long. They’re the type of shoes that are meant to feel like sneakers but look like leather loafers, and Clint isn’t wearing socks with them, and there’s something about the hint of his bare ankle that makes Bucky dry-swallow again. Fucker. He would suspect Natalia of bringing him here because he’s _exactly_ Bucky’s type, except that Clint’s actions have been so far away from flirting that Bucky feels like he may need to give the guy directions.

To his surprise, Clint flushes in exactly the wrong way, his brow furrowing like he’s embarrassed, and he stomps past Bucky towards the men’s room.

Bucky glances over at Natalia.

“Whatever you said about his clothes worked,” she says, in that voice that’s so neutral she’s telling you to read something into it. “We went out and bought all of that today.”

Bucky blinks. “What, he didn’t have any nice clothes?”

“He doesn’t have _clothes,_ James,” Natalia hisses, quietly. “Look, I’m not inclined to share Clint’s personal business, but I may have… neglected to explain much of the place Clint is coming from. He’s crashing on my couch, and I believe he…” She stops, and Bucky is struck again at how much Natalia _likes_ this guy.

“Okay, okay,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing. Natalia is touch-and-go with physical comfort, but Bucky’s been accepted within her personal space for years at this point. It’s a comfort for him, as well; he hates when Natalia gets upset.

“Clint has had a lifetime’s worth of bad luck, not all of which has been due to his particularly poor life choices,” Natalia tells him, tipping her head down onto his hand for a second. “I want to give him stability, but you can’t gift something like that to someone like him.”

Bucky gets it. He crosses his arms. “So you’re tricking him into it.”

Natalia shrugs, and she smiles, as if pleased Bucky gets it. “I’m offering him good stable employment, skills that will transfer elsewhere if he wants to move on, and a better than living salary.”

“You want him to be family.”

Natalia’s face locks up and she says to Bucky, dictating very particularly, “Clint _is_ my family. I can’t even tell you… After you, after we were…” She trails off. “Clint helped me through some truly bad shit that I have never told you about. You may not ask. But Clint already is my family, as much as you are.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, both hands coming up into the air. “I just — if he’s gonna be that touchy, I want to know how to treat him, Natalia. I didn’t mean to upset him with that comment. He looks fucking fine,” and a smile ghosts across Natalia’s face, as if she’s appreciating that Bucky noticed.

She sighs, then, and her shoulders soften into something more approachable. “Just don’t treat him like he’s stupid, or unqualified, or not classy enough. He may not know all the things you know, but he’s incredibly bright, and quick on the uptake. He does _not_ take well to feeling stupid. See what you can get from that.”

Bucky sighs, runs a flour-y hand through his hair, forgetting that it’s halfway up in a bun. “Alright,” he says, with a sardonic salute. “One sous chef coming up.”

He heads back to find Clint wandering through the kitchen, investigating the different equipment. He doesn’t look familiar, but neither does he look intimidated; he opens the warming oven, then the freezer, then pulls out some of Bucky’s utensils, rotating them around.

“Hey,” Bucky says. He’s pulling his hair back up into the usual ponytail, cause long brown hairs don’t go well in a salad. “Whattaya think?”

Clint shrugs, sticking the ladle back into its drawer. “Looks pretty fancy to me.”

With what Natalia just said in mind, Bucky shrugs. “If it looks unusual it’s because I’m picky about my appliances, not cause anything’s top of the line. C’mere, lemme show you the menu.”

Clint wanders over to where Bucky has taken care to write it out on the chalkboard. He always writes up the menu, for the servers to check, but tonight he’s added the extra details he thinks Clint’ll need: shredded barbecue chicken with cheddar and banana peppers on house baked flatbread; 8oz filet with cheesy garlic mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus; and linguine with garlic olive oil, sun dried tomatoes, and mozzarella, choose chicken or salmon. 

“Holy shit,” Clint says. “We’re making better shit than I’ve ever _eaten._ ”

Again, Bucky doesn’t want to hit a wrong note here. “You’ll get to eat it, too,” he says, “plenty. Can’t cook it until you know what it tastes like.”

He tries to ignore the excitement in Clint’s eyes since it’s followed by a wash of shame that shuts the guy’s face down again. “Alright,” Bucky says, “So tonight I’m doin’ most of the work, and your job is gonna see if you can follow what I’m doin’. You put the topping on each dish before it goes out. It’s gonna get you used to the layout here, to following how I cook, and you’ll get to see how the servers and bussers work.”

_And,_ Bucky thinks, _I’m gonna get you started in recognizing quality cooking._ If Clint’s led the kind of life Natalia’s implying, here, he’s gonna need to teach this boy about _steak._ Okay. Apparently he’s gonna _woo_ the sous chef first. Before banging him. Sometimes Bucky wishes his brain would think through decisions before making them.

He spends the next hour walking Clint through each dish. The flatbread’s already divided out into balls, and Bucky shows Clint how he flattens each one out and then grills it. He points out the slow cooker with barbecue chicken simmering inside, and the extra chicken breast, already cooked, in the fridge. Clint’s job is the banana pepper (sliced) and cheddar cheese (grated) on the top of each flatbread when it comes out of the oven and before it gets slapped onto the plate. 

Bucky figures if Clint’s never worked in a kitchen, he’s gonna need some basic understanding of the terms they use before he can really soak up some new skills. Natalia’s words have just made him _more_ sympathetic to Clint - like he wasn’t already sympathetic to those arms - and he’s determined to make sure the guy has a positive experience, at least. 

For the filet dish, Bucky cooks one up for him, special seasoning and medium rare, then slaps down the mashed potato mix he has already made in his big pot, water already boiling for the next batch of potatoes. Adding the asparagus - in the steamer, easy to manage - is Clint’s job, the last thing to go on the plate before it heads out.

The linguine’s the most complicated, although in Bucky’s defense it’s the kind of dish he’s becoming known for. The pasta is made on order, not pre-made, so his pots of boiling water are all ready; the chicken and salmon are already cut, the sundried tomatoes, mozzarella, oil, and seasonings sitting out and available at a little station for Clint to work at. Clint watches intently as Bucky slaps on both chicken and salmon — different pans, different heats — after dropping in a serving of the pasta. Bucky notes that Clint’s watching the meats, intently, even as Bucky adds the garlic, oil, and other flavors into the skillet, and then tosses in the linguine. He might be showing off a bit, because when Clint’s distracted enough to look interested, his face softens into an unbelievable jawline, and Bucky’s only human.

Finally, all three meals are set out on the table, and Bucky gestures. “Go on,” he says. “Taste.”

They both have forks, but Bucky knows what these are gonna taste like, so he waits for Clint to try each of them first before taking his own bite.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Clint says, and then “Holy fuck,” followed by “holy fucking shit I don’t believe I’m even _at_ a place that makes food like this.” The noises he’s been making while tasting are absolutely obscene, and Bucky’s got all kinds of mental images. If Clint’s this easy for _food,_ what the _fuck_ does he sound like in bed, and how the _hell_ does Bucky get there?

“Go ahead,” Bucky says with a gesture, after he’s obediently tasted his own cooking for the one millionth time; “I’ve had all of this before.” And that’s how he finds out that Clint’s obviously not eating enough - even if he’s living with Natalia - because Clint powers his way through two-thirds of each plate before even slowing down.

“Oh my god,” Clint says, leaning back, eyes shit. “I’m so full I am going to _die,_ but at least I’ll die happy.”

Bucky chuckles. “You know that’s real flattering, when somebody likes your cooking.”

Clint’s eyes split open, glints glancing over at Bucky. “I just ate almost everything you made. If I flattered you any more, I’d be sucking your dick and proposing marriage.”

His eyes fly open immediately, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but Bucky’s already laughing so goddamned hard that Clint’s panic fades from his eyes almost instantly. He doesn’t like the way his dick wants to immediately stand at attention - I mean, of course he likes the _idea,_ but this is a _kitchen_ \- but the look on Clint’s face is so fucking horrified that he’s laughing so hard his stomach hurts.

“First lesson of the kitchen, Clint,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Nothing’s off limits in the kitchen.”

Clint grins - slowly, but at that speed it’s like the goddamned sun coming up - and it’s the first real smile Bucky’s gotten out of him.

———

They spend the rest of their time prepping (Bucky) and following around asking questions (Clint) — at least until the twins come in. Then they have to steal Clint to show him _their_ kitchen - “Ours is so much more useful,” Pietro says cheerfully, “you will soon come to work for us instead” - so Bucky finishes up his prep and spends the rest of it chastising Peter, who tried to wash his smallest cast iron skillet last time with a _scraper_ and _soap,_ that little fucker.

Natalia comes in with Hope - the other head server - before the shift and they roll through the menu, Clint nodding along with Bucky, wearing one of Bucky’s aprons since his haven’t arrived yet; he looks tense, to Bucky, who slides over and bumps up against his arm at some point during Natalia’s standard review of their reservations tonight and what to expect.

And then, they’re back in the kitchen, and Clint’s making these rounds of Bucky’s space, slowly more and more frantic and vulnerable, until Bucky catches him around the - surprisingly large - upper arm and scoots him down to sit.

“You gotta chill,” Bucky says, gently. “If for no other reason than when I get working, I get grumpy, and if you aren’t chill I’m gonna punch you in the throat.”

Clint laughs, and it’s high, silly-sounding. “I’ve never even _seen_ steak that good, Bucky, what the _fuck_ am I doing here?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Bucky says, evenly. “You’re topping the pizzas, adding asparagus, and topping with mozzarella.”

“I’m going to fuck it up,” Clint nearly whines.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe? I mean, it’s simple work and you seem clever enough. But also, if you do, so what? You come into this business thinking no one ever fucks up a plate, you’re gonna die of stress before you even get to eat the leftovers.”

Clint glances up at him and for once his eyes are — not shielded. It looks like - Bucky realizes, suddenly - that Clint’s used to hiding behind masks: confidence, or lack thereof; aloofness; not caring. Bucky swallows around a dry throat. Clint’s eyes are a strange green, with grey laced through it, and without anything blocking that look Bucky feels pared down to his core. 

“I just don’t want to fuck it up for Natasha,” Clint says, and _huh,_ it’s funny that he uses her friend-name, when Bucky learnt her trade-name so long ago.

“We won’t,” Bucky says, and he has to duck away from Clint’s face before he does something stupid to those plush, open lips. “We won’t.”

———

And Clint doesn’t, at first. He keeps up with Bucky in an almost regimented way, all of his gestures nearly mechanical repeats of each other, as if he’d afraid to deviate from a plan in the slightest; Bucks figures he’ll loosen up, and he focuses in on making sure _his_ stuff all goes to plan. He wants Clint’s first real night to go smoothly.

But as the evening goes on and things grow frantic, tension starts to grow in Clint’s shoulders. First, he’s slow chopping the banana peppers, and the flatbreads get a little behind while he’s catching up. One burns on the grill, which is technically Bucky’s fault, but he sees the wrinkle in Clint’s forehead as he frowns down at the cutting board. Then Bucky gets a bit behind prepping the second slow-cooker of barbecue chicken; the first is halfway, and the chicken breasts are mostly cooked, so it’s just cooking them in the sauce until they’re soft and tender enough to shred -- but the sauce is hand-made, and Clint’s trying to cover more in the kitchen while Bucky’s carefully measuring out brown sugar.

And then a flatbread lights on fire.

It’s one Clint had made, and Bucky at least has to give him points for initiative; Clint’s learnt the ticket system real fast, and must have seen it pop up on the screen and figured he’d do Bucky a favor. But you can’t just toss a flatbread anywhere on the grill, and you can’t just toss it on and leave it, and there are flames. Clint’s kind of frozen, just staring at it.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Bucky says distinctly, and Clint shrinks away. 

Bucky picks the flatbread up with his dead fingers and tosses it into the sink, running the water to put out the smolder. He then turns on the industrial sized fan cause he does _not_ want the smoke alarms going off in here, thank you very much. Clint’s sort of backed into a corner, and Bucky freezes, spotting the look on his face.

Clint looks devastated. It’s as if he thinks he had one chance and is now out of them; and there’s a weird resignment to it, like he’s so used to fucking up that he’s just gonna roll with this one instead of fight. Like he deserves and expects — Bucky isn’t sure what, but it’s nothin’ good. It settles weirdly in Bucky’s gut, and maybe he isn’t just gonna bang the sous chef. He kind of wants to hug the sous chef.

So instead of turning back to any of the hot food he could be paying attention to, he gravely extends a fist towards Clint.

“Congrats,” he says. “Fire on the first day. Welcome to the club.”

Clint blinks. 

“C’mon, man, bump me,” Bucky says, and he turns up the grin he knows can charm even Stevie if he needs to. “It’s like a ritual. Wanda and Pietro actually keep score.”

“I’m not,” Clint starts, eyeing Bucky’s fist like he expects it to land in his eye. “I’m not in trouble?”

Bucky snorts. “ _We_ might be in trouble, if we get behind, but you’re fine. Honestly, it didn’t even need salting.”

“Salting?” Clint asks, and Bucky just gestures at him until he slowly raises a fist and bumps Bucky back.

“Kitchen fires aren’t normal fires,” Bucky says, now flying back to the sizzling filet and the pasta that might be a bit past al dente. “Gotta be careful with all the oil and certain ingredients. This is nothing, I put it out with my _hands._ ” He isn’t quite ready to talk to Clint about his left hand, but he still wants to make the point.

Clint stands still, and Bucky decides that’s enough of a pep talk. He’s got a kitchen to run. 

Slowly, frantically, he gets everything back in line, second batch of mashed potatoes ready to be mashed and salmon filets delivered, cheese grated and garlic tossed in olive oil with basil and a dash of balsamic. He’s run this kitchen by himself before; if Clint needs time, Clint gets time. It isn’t pretty, and Bucky’s sure he doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t want to break Natalia’s friend on the first day either.

Then he’s loading up a plate with pasta and placing the juicy chicken breast on top and Clint’s there to take it from his hands, moving over to the station.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and Clint just nods at him.

\------

The night ends on a decent note. Bucky turns to Clint as they put out the last plate, and grins, tiredly.

“There you go,” he says. “First night.”

Clint looks - a bit wild; elated and confused and exhausted - but his face is open when he smiles crookedly back at Bucky.

“Thanks,” he says simply. “Now what?”

“Now,” Bucky replies, turning back into the kitchen, “we introduce you to Family Meal.”

Wanda’s had a good day and managed to slip in a pan of mini lava cakes for everyone during the last rush. Pietro has a bowl of caesar salad and a couple hamburgers on the grill. Bucky slaps the last of the garlic mashed potatoes, the pasta, and the barbecue chicken into bowls, handing two to Clint, and heads out into the dining room.

Hope’s cleaning up tables, Kate and Peter assisting, and Natalia’s checking the bar, setting out the open bottles of wine that aren’t worth preserving overnight. Bucky heads over to the bar and grabs trivets from the stack Natalia’s already set out, gesturing for Clint to set the food down.

Natalia smiles at them, particularly softening when she looks at Clint. “How was it?”

“Oh my _god,_ Tasha.” Clint lets his head fall directly down on the bar. “I didn’t realize it was so _busy_ back there.”

Bucky snorts, and then glances over at Natalia. “He did well,” he says, softly.

“I knew you would,” Natalia says to the top of Clint’s head. 

“I want to sleep for four hundred hours,” Clint mumbles into the bar. 

Natalia pulls down two glasses and pours Bucky and Clint each a couple fingers of cabernet sauvignon, pushing the glasses forward and tapping Clint with his. “I told you, you wouldn’t burn it down.”

Clint laughs sadly into the table. “I tried,” he says. “There were flames. Flatbread flames.”

“Did I hear flames?” Pietro comes around the corner, grinning, carrying a plate full of burger toppings. “It is time for congratulations, then?”

“Oh my god,” Clint says faintly, and his hands come up to clutch the back of his head as if he’s trying to press his entire face into the bar.

Bucky claps him on the back, gently; he wants to rub his hand between Clint’s shoulder blades, down his back, but he isn’t sure how that’s going to be received. “Told you,” he says, utterly amused but trying to make it gentle. “Pietro,” he calls back, “what’s the score this month?”

“He has had five, and I have only had four.” Wanda has followed him out, carrying leftover fruit and the lava cakes. “I am winning.”

“This is fine,” Pietro shoots back cheerfully. “Last month you had seven and lost very bad.”

Bucky notices that Clint’s glancing back and forth between them, his eyes on their mouths, and remembers suddenly that Clint’s hard of hearing. Family Meal can get chaotic, but Bucky really wants Clint to have a good experience, so he shoves at the other man until they’re both situated on stools and hold up his glass for a toast.

“Hey,” he says, pitching his voice forward and making sure Clint can watch his face. “Here’s to a good first night, fire included.”

Clint looks straight back at Bucky, as if he knows exactly what Bucky’s about, and again Bucky feels like he’s being examined from the inside out. The smile that grows on Clint’s face is tentative, sure, but it’s his whole _face_ that’s smiling and Bucky feels his gut flip over in excitement at it.

“I think you’re absolutely fucking crazy, all of you,” Clint says, but it’s only to Bucky. They clink glasses, and sip.

Family Night’s the kind of tradition that’s vaguely the same across the restaurant industry, but different for each establishment. At _The Red Room,_ Natalia treats it like a cross between a family potluck and a cocktail hour; they focus mainly on leftovers that aren’t worth packaging up and saving for the next day, and mistake meals a bit overcooked they’ve decided not to serve, and bits and pieces of the day’s service. Natalia doesn’t believe in recorking wine, so they enjoy whatever’s left over and open, although she’ll never open something new for the night. 

It’s one of Bucky’s favorite things about the place. It isn’t mandatory, it doesn’t happen every night (they can occasionally time their prep so that overflow food fits in a take-home box rather than a serving bowl), and not everybody stays for it. Not everyone in the restaurant industry lives for it, and Bucky knows that, but for people who _do_ \- for him, and Natalia, and Wanda and Pietro, people for whom it’s a calling as well as a job - Family Night’s the kind of thing that can get you through even the longest workday.

They don’t have it every night, and normally not on weekdays; Bucky knows this is special, cause Clint’s here, just like he knows Natalia will be initiating Family Night more often than not until she’s got Clint wrapped around her finger.

Bucky stays by Clint’s side as plates get loaded and passed around. Despite the fact that Clint ate the majority of Bucky’s prep meals earlier, he still manages to clean two entire plates of leftover mash, barbecue chicken, and Pietro’s mac & cheese -- along with three of Wanda’s lava cakes, which makes him a temporary center of attention and wins him a shot of vodka, but also tells Bucky that Clint has to be lying to Natasha about how much he’s eating and where because no one with a reasonable meal schedule can eat that much from this place. He’s sure Natalia would offer Clint anything, so why isn’t he eating?

The night fades onward slowly, the buzz of conversation dying down in the background, and Bucky’s left with a cheerful, talkative Clint he hasn’t seen yet. This guy has more personalities in one day than Pietro has salad dressings, but fuck, this is Bucky’s favorite so far.

“Dogs,” Clint says happily. He’s got an elbow up on the bar, hand cradling his cheek, all of his body language focused on Bucky. “I love dogs. I used to count how many I saw in the mornings on the way to work. It was a lucky day if I saw more than four.”

Bucky, for his part, is loosening up under Clint’s attention, for better or worse. He’s got a foot resting on one of the rungs of Clint’s bar stool, ankle locked around the post, his other leg tucked in underneath him. There’s something about Clint’s gaze that’s caught him, and his face is flushed from more than the wine; he’s only known this guy for hours, really, and yet somehow he could listen to happy Clint burble on about anything.

“Steve wants a dog,” Bucky offers, and then when Clint frowns and glances around: “Steve’s my roommate,” Bucky corrects. “Doesn’t work here, but comes in enough that everybody knows to kick him right out. Best friends since we were six years old. Wants a dog, but with the hours I work here, ain’t gonna happen unless he’s ready to do it all by himself.”

Clint’s face goes through a series of micro-expressions, something meaningful but too vague for Bucky to pick up, and then settles. “Friends since you were six,” Clint muses. His voice is pensive. “I can’t even imagine.”

Bucky shrugs. “I met him when he was gettin’ his ass kicked down an alleyway out by our shitty neighborhood. Tiny-ass thing, didn’t look any older than three, still talking the loudest smack you’ve ever heard.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Didn’t hit a growth spurt until he was sixteen, and now he’s the biggest motherfucker I’ve ever met.”

Clint laughs, freely and openly, and Bucky’s just a little bit more charmed every time. Shit. He needs to get a grip around this guy. Clint’s prickly and vague and inexperienced, but he’s also got the most expressive eyes Bucky’s ever seen once he lets them go, an entirely wicked sense of humor, and a collarbone Bucky wants to teethe on. It’s too complicated at this point, since the guy may end up working for him — or leaving. Neither one seems ideal.

“I don’t even,” Clint begins, laughing, but then his face goes through a series of somersaults until something dark settles over his eyes, like trying to look through sunglasses. “Tasha’s the only family I got,” Clint says, and that’s simultaneously offering something important and dodging what feels like something significant. “I can’t imagine.”

Bucky decides to reply rather than dig. “It means we have years of dirt on each other,” he confesses, laughing, “to the point where I just gotta give up when he’s around, and vice versa. It’s weird.”

Clint’s head sinks further into his hand, so that his gaze and his smile are both crooked as he looks up at Bucky, and it seems incredibly fond. Bucky feels his heart flip over, and shit, he may as well admit he’s got a crush on the new guy at this point, something way past his initial statement of _imma bang the sous chef._

“Say,” Bucky starts, not even knowing how he’s gonna finish that up -- but then Pietro comes tripping in, gesticulating wildly with a breadstick, demanding the story of what Clint burnt on his first day in the kitchen. Clint smiles, but Bucky watches as one of the masks drops down; Clint seems perfectly relaxed and happy telling Pietro about the flatbread disaster, but Bucky’s a little surprised to realize he can tell that it’s Clint playing a role, playing entertainment. 

He glances over to Natalia. She always has a full glass of wine for Family Night, even though she openly drinks from it all night; Bucky suspects she opens a bottle just for herself, which doesn’t bother him since she’ll also keep him continually topped off, but no one’s caught her at it yet.

Natalia’s watching Clint with a soft smile on her face, one she rarely lets out in public. As Bucky turns towards her, her eyes flick to him, and after a few seconds of observation, she lifts her glass in a toast.

———

Clint lets Natasha bundle him home; she lives within walking distance of _The Red Room,_ a tiny home she bought on purpose for its location. She’s absolutely gleaming, beaming with a gentle confidence Clint isn’t used to seeing on her permanently. He’s seen Natasha in almost every mood possible at this point, to be honest, but he isn’t used to her keeping them on for more than five or ten minutes at a time. Especially the good moods.

Family Meal. It had been — odd, for sure; Clint’s not used to family anything, especially in a group of people who aren’t technically family. Even considering actual blood relations, Clint’s never seen anything like it. But it seems like the kind of thing restaurant folk do, and it makes sense to make sure the leftovers don’t get wasted. 

He’d certainly eaten his fill, although he hopes no one notices. Tasha’s been telling him to help himself in the house, but Clint doesn’t want to eat the groceries she’s already paid for, so he’s been existing on the pop-tarts he bought at the corner bodega and an occasional apple from Nat’s stash. Until he gets his first paycheck — then he’ll pay Tasha back for everything he’s eaten and pick up some other cheap stuff to make do while he’s here.

Clint isn’t quite sure why eating the restaurant’s food feels any different to him, but it did. When Bucky had set those plates down in front of him, after walking him through the instructions and his own particular tasks, it hadn’t felt like a handout: it was more like… He can’t think of the word. Being useful. Bucky had made the food anyway; why waste it?

Just like the Family Meal thing; the food’s there, just sitting and waiting, and Clint’s too hungry and too practical to let it go to waste. Better it sits in his stomach than in the dumpster, right? 

He wonders whether Bucky had noticed. Clint hadn’t been able to ignore the fact that Bucky’s eyes had spent a lot of time on him. He’d be flattered, but he suspects that some of it is Bucky still measuring up his new assistant; he can’t blame Bucky for having doubts, and he just hopes Bucky deems him acceptable enough that he won’t embarrass Tasha too bad while he’s here. 

Although he thinks about looking back at Bucky, whose face sinks into a remarkably open relaxation when he isn’t driving himself insane in his own kitchen. He thinks about Bucky’s pale grey eyes, and the way Bucky’s eyes flicked down to Clint’s mouth every now and again when they were sitting at the bar. Bucky’s hotter than hell, so fucking attractive Clint has to literally swallow his tongue every time he’s in the kitchen. And every time he notices Bucky looking - which is _a lot_ \- he’s tempted again. 

He isn’t here to stay. He’s here for a breather, and then he’s off, before he takes too much advantage of Tasha’s kindness. And sure, no-strings-attached sex exists, but Clint isn’t good at it, and it’s just better to keep his distance until he’s ready to go. If he falls for the head chef he’ll never be able to leave, and he has to prove he can make it on his own.


	3. one way street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky's love affair with garlic continues. tony stark appears. clint barton, well, continues.

Bucky notes that Clint makes it through the next two dinner services with similar results: minor errors, lack of confidence, an urge to be useful, and an overall compliance to their usual standards. He hasn’t lit anything else on fire, although he did burn Bucky’s Korean steak sauce to the point where Bucky had to throw it out and start over -- but that’s okay, that’s salvageable, it isn’t anything severe. Bucky watches Clint careen through a number of emotional states, which is a little unsettling until he starts to pick up on the fact that Clint’ll get his job done no matter what, even if he’s bouncing between expressions and body language like a ping pong ball.

Then, it’s Thursday night, and Bucky feels like Clint needs a bit of a warning for the weekend.

He pulls Clint back into his kitchen; for a second he thinks it’ll just be them, and pulls down his bottle of bourbon, only to find they’ve been followed by Pietro and Wanda and Kate. Bucky hates sharing, but it isn’t the worst audience, so he pours out as needed and makes a mental note to tell Natasha he’s nicking another one from the bar. He doesn’t want to get Thor in trouble over a missing bottle. 

“Okay,” he starts, “so tomorrow starts our weekend service, and it’s a bit different from what you’ve seen this week.”

Clint looks at him and there’s a little panic in his eyes. His hair is spiked upwards with sweat, he has a streak of dried marinara sauce up his cheek, and his nice navy tee is covered in garlic cream: he’s a mess. But tonight he also managed to keep up with smashing and chopping all of Bucky’s garlic - which is a lot; Bucky believes that four cloves is a minimum - _and_ he went to help Pietro prep salad for twenty minutes without totally fucking up Bucky’s flow. And, honestly, the mess looks cute on him.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Wanda starts. “It’s just like weekday service, only up a ...a step. A notch? A stair?”

The Maximoffs have managed to lose most of their accents but they’re still learning idioms and phrasings. They’d left the Institute a few years behind Bucky and Nat, and they’d immediately reached out in solidarity. Bucky knows this is his and Nat’s child, their dream, their specialty, but -- he has to admit that without the Maximoffs at the foundation of _The Red Room,_ they wouldn’t have made it.

“Right,” Kate snorts. She’s barely old enough to share Bucky’s liquor, honestly, but he’s seen her joking around with Clint a couple times this week, which makes her an ally. “Which night’s Stark Central this time, Buck?”

“Saturday,” Bucky says, and Kate groans dramatically, throwing her head backwards and her hands in the air.

“Katie,” Pietro says with a smile, “This is not so different.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Kate says, through her fingers.

Bucky turns to Clint. “Through no fault of our own, we’ve become Stark Industries’ favorite place for business dinners.”

Clint nods, as if this is normal, and then Bucky can tell the words catch up to him because his entire face wrinkles up as he says, “Wait, what?”

“Tony Stark likes us,” Bucky replies. “So at least once a night on an average weekend, we’re hosting him, his team, and any number of business colleagues. Natalia’s worked it out to where we provide some privacy and special top-of-the-line cuisine for their tables, they accept us billing them out the ass for it, and everyone goes home happy.”

“Right,” Kate mutters. “Everyone except us, who end up working our asses off catering to his every whim.”

“You’re welcome to forfeit your tips anytime,” Bucky offers mildly, and Kate slumps back into a sulk, although she says nothing else.

“So,” Clint starts. He looks a bit reluctant, afraid to ask, although he might just be confused. “So what’s different?”

“Normally?” Bucky says, speaking over sputtering from both Wanda and Pietro. “Not so much. We offer a specialized menu that’s a sort of… premium option of our specials, more like a private chef thing than a restaurant. In return, Tony Stark’s company provides the best tips of the week.”

Clint’s mouth scrunches from side-to-side, and it would be hilarious if his eyes didn’t look so concerned. “Is that normal?”

“It is, how do they say, an unspoken agreement,” Wanda offers. “It benefits both of us, and Natalia works out the details.”

Clint glances at Bucky, who shrugs. It really isn’t that big of a deal; it’s just that occasionally it runs up against an already-busy night and tips them over into chaos.

“It is not shady,” Pietro assures him. “The only shady thing in this kitchen is me.”

“You are as shady as a _kitten,_ ” Wanda tells him.

“My dog is shadier than you,” Kate adds. “He’s tougher, too.”

Clint perks up. “You have a dog?”

“Alright,” Bucky says, taking control back from his kitchen. “Friday night we’ll do a special take on bar food. Gourmet burgers, those nachos that were such a hit last time. Beer-battered calamari. Pietro, I’ll need soup and salad combos, at least three. Wanda, think late-night breakfast sandwiches, we’ll do that instead of a flatbread.”

Pietro nods back at him and Wanda’s brow furrows like she’s taking notes.

“Since this is Clint’s first Saturday step-up, we’ll keep it simple and clean,” Bucky continues. “Shrimp skewers are easy to glam, grilled tenderloin is always a hit, and we’ll do a fancy eggplant flatbread even Stark can’t complain about. I’ll make sure the standard recipes are on the board, so that when I have to pull away for the executive party, the three of you can work together to keep our orders flowing.”

Pietro grins. Wanda nods. Clint says, “Three of us?”

Kate cackles. “Sir Buck de Cuisine over there takes care of the Stark Snob Table. The rest of us have to pick up the slack to make sure none of the peons are overlooked.”

“Watch it,” Bucky says evenly, just as Pietro murmurs, “Is your father not the rich man, Katie-Kate? I am sure you could have the--”

“Oh,” Kate bursts out. “Screw you, Pietro.” She hops off the counter with a huff and heads to the ladies’ room, ostensibly to change.

“Okay,” Clint says out loud, and it’s meant to sound reasonable but Bucky hears an edge underneath it. That’s right, Clint likes Kate — and Kate’s wonderful, really, but her attitude tonight must mean she’s been in another fight with her dad. 

“Look.” Bucky pitches his voice harder than usual; the Maximoffs don’t really deserve being forced out, but he’s really suddenly not in the mood. “This isn’t unusual for anyone except Clint and I, so why don’t you both head out and let us review.”

Wanda and Pietro just look at each other, and then drift out of Bucky’s kitchen, still muttering at each other mostly using their eyes.

“So,” Clint mumbles after a second or two. “Is this bad?”

“This is _good,_ ” Bucky tells him, “because normally Wanda and Pietro have to pick up the slack to keep specials rolling, and they pull in Peter and Kate to help them, and by the time I’m done serving Stark’s rich people table everything’s a mess and covered in shredded lettuce.” He takes a step forwards, clapping a hand to Clint’s shoulder. “You’re already better than that.”

“The fuck I am,” Clint says like it’s automatic, bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck; their fingers brush, unintentionally, and it’s like a shock to Bucky’s system. A moment passes between them while Clint stares at his shoes and Bucky stares at the line of tension in his forehead. Clint finishes, finally, “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Nope,” Bucky says, particularly pronouncing the _p_ of it between his lips. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m making a menu you can mostly handle after some practice, on purpose, because I want you to show everybody what you know.”

It’s a carefully calculated risk, and he’s betting Clint has some kind of competitive streak in him -- which isn’t a loser’s bet, after a few days of watching him fume over every little mistake and setback like other cooks Bucky’s known. He watches Clint weigh his own self-consciousness with that particular spark, and is rewarded when Clint turns to him with pink cheeks and a light in his eyes. 

“You gotta show me twice,” Clint says, and his mouth is smirking but determined. “I’m not gonna let you down.”

Bucky notes, distantly, that it isn’t Natalia Clint’s referring to: it’s Bucky, specifically, that he doesn’t want to let down. The thought warms him, strangely enough.

\------

The thing is, Bucky thinks, once he’s home and curled up in the nest of pillows and fluffy blankets that makes up his bed, that Clint’s this incredible bizarre unbelievable collection of contradictions that intrigues Bucky only a small bit more than it infuriates him.

Even after these long days together in the kitchen, Bucky only knows the small snippets of Clint that he’s been given; he keeps the sentences Natalia gave him separate, because they deserve to be kept in a special place, but the rest of Clint is a construct of a mix of pieces he’s offered up and the few truths Bucky’s been able to glean from underneath that falsefacing.

Clint’s talented. He’s insecure. He’s simultaneously cocky, spitting his own kind of bravado, and yet -- shy, ducking his head to avoid praise, running a hand through his hair while glancing away. Some days it’s like he’s already part of the family, joking around with the Maximoffs with a spatula in hand - the day he smacked Pietro on the ass with it was easily the best day Bucky’s had in a while - and some days it’s like he hovers with one foot out the door.

And Bucky’s torn, himself. He likes Clint, professionally; Nat was right, in that he’s an incredibly quick learner with a sharp eye and a mind for detail. If he cares enough, Clint could become an incredibly skilled chef, and Bucky isn’t arrogant enough to pretend Clint would only have a place at _The Red Room_ ; these are skills that could travel anywhere, if Clint has somewhere else to go.

Bucky’s just in the middle of a bunch of mixed signals and that’s the kind of situation he hates the most. He knows Natalia would love for Clint to stay, but won’t make him; and he knows his own professional opinions, which encompass the realm of _if I taught him, he owes me_ that the Institute taught him so long ago. His personal feelings are more complicated, and the reads he gets off of Clint are the most complicated yet.

It’s mostly that - it’s that Clint adapts; he reacts, he changes, he shifts. And while Bucky’s been down enough shitty paths that he understands the importance of having that skill, he’s sort of worried every time Clint applies it to _The Red Room_ ; it’s like he’s already packing up, in the back of his skull, so he can be on the road as soon as possible. 

The other problem is that this is all apropos and inappropriate when considered against the sheer physical draw Bucky has to acknowledge. There’s this raw feeling between them, sometimes, and Bucky knows it isn’t just him - he’s caught Clint’s eyes on his mouth, Clint’s gaze tracing him down - but that’s somehow different than the professional, different than all the other variables. Bucky feels like if those other variables didn’t exist, he might’ve already taken advantage of a late night, of an almost-empty bottle of wine and leftover lavender tarte, of the last pieces of a tenderloin and zucchini salad, of the noises Clint makes when he eats the best of Bucky’s food. Bucky’s watched the swallow of Clint’s throat too many times for it to look anything but erotic, no matter what the context.

The truth is: Bucky’s purely physical crush on Clint is turning into an actual crush on Clint, and from his count there are at least twenty-three ways that can be a disaster. Bucky knows himself well enough to admit maybe banging the sous chef is a bad idea — he’s really rough with feelings in general, and there’s no point in feelings at all if the guy’s just gonna leave.

\------

They open later on Saturdays, setting the main room to open at 1600 and kitchen service at 1700, because Saturdays bloom slow but can last until 0200 or 0300 in the morning, which usually means great tips. Since this is Clint’s first Stark Saturday, Bucky arranges to meet him at 1400 in the kitchen, which gives them _so much time_ to review the menu, the extended menu, the things Wanda and Pietro are capable of doing even if they try to tell Clint to do it, and the few critically important things to remember during a service like this.

“This just seems weird,” Clint says eventually, after reviewing the menu again. Natalia’s shifted the room arrangement just slightly, so that there are two tables making a V in the corner that feel separated from the rest. 

“Nah.” Bucky stretches, keeping his voice calm, trying to get Clint to settle. “Perfectly normal here.”

“Which is weird,” Clint points out, but he’s grinning a bit now.

“Know what’s not weird? A two-hundred dollar tip,” Bucky shoots back, and as Clint’s eyes widen, he adds: “ _Each._ ”

“I don’t even understand having that much money,” Clint says, and something crosses his face like he didn’t mean for Bucky to hear that. “But I’ll sure take it.”

“Exactly.” Bucky grins, and folds his arms. “Now, walk me through it.”

Clint laughs. “Really? We just did it like, a million times.”

“With me speaking,” Bucky points out. “Now you. Tell me what we’re making tonight.”

And Bucky follows as Clint dutifully explains the shrimp skewers, the jerk rub, the pineapple rice; followed by the tenderloin on the grill over the vegetable mix; then the flatbread pizzas, thinly-sliced grilled eggplant over a balsamic-basil pesto, with feta and arugula. Clint may not know the fancy terms, but he’s got the directions down.

Bucky grins at him and is rewarded by that slow beaming smile Clint uses when he’s actually proud. “Nicely done. You’ll show those kids what’s up. I’m not even worried.”

Clint’s mouth quirks a bit, but the easy smile doesn’t fade. “So tell me,” he says, “what do you do with all of this for the fancy Stark Table?”

“Ha,” Bucky says, because now he gets to show off. He cracks his knuckles. “Watch and learn.”

The shrimp are paired with scallops on the skewers, all lightly dusted with the jerk seasoning and lemon juice, and grilled to perfection. Bucky takes the pineapple rice and adds egg, chives, green onions, and a dash of soy sauce, frying it up. He presses it into a bowl and then presses it onto the plate, so that the rice stays in a dome. The skewers are set perfectly across the plate and he whips up a quick glaze - soy, lemon, white wine, some of the jerk, some smoked paprika - and drizzles it on. The plate’s technically from the same starting point, but it’s made to look like the kind of thing Bucky always sees on Iron Chef competitions.

Clint’s eyes are wide as he takes it in. He glances at the place, then back up at Bucky. “This is the stuff you really like to make,” he says slowly, a brief moment of insight which surprises Bucky.

“It’s the kind of thing I’m trained to make,” he says, which isn’t really an answer. “It’s also almost exactly the same thing we’re making for dinner anyway.”

Clint’s obviously dying to try it, so Bucky puts it down on the table and Clint dives for one of the skewers. He’s tasted the three specials already, and Bucky knows this one won’t be that much different, but it’s like Clint’s always hungry. Isn’t Natalia feeding him anything?

“Ready?” Bucky asks once Clint’s devoured most of the plate. 

Clint looks up at him, and Bucky watches as Clint’s eyes flick to his chest, then his lips, before meeting Bucky’s gaze and nodding. Huh. Interesting.

Probably not the night to think about it, though.

———

And it figures that, within the first hour of service, just as he and Clint are starting to hit a rhythm, Steve appears in the service window.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Bucky says, cause it’s too early for Steve to be starting shit. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“Nat likes me,” Steve points out, and it’s unfortunately true; Nat enjoys Steve, although she’ll always listen to Bucky first if he says Steve’s being a distraction. “Hi new guy.”

“Christ,” Bucky growls. “Steve, this is Clint, the best thing to happen to this kitchen since me. Clint, this is Steve, my asshole roommate.”

Clint glances up and Bucky sees as he does the double-take; Steve’s big, surprisingly wide shoulders and all muscle underneath, and he wears stupid shirts that must be from the childrens’ section, and he’s good-looking to boot. “Hi, roommate.”

“Why are you here?” Bucky grunts out. He’s working out flatbreads, pressing them out slowly; Clint’s still a little hard on them, and his always break open. He’s doing great with the shrimp skewers, though.

“It’s Stark Night.” Steve’s grin is incredibly troublesome. “And you know I like to watch.”

“I’m making Hope kick you out,” Bucky says in return. “Stop staring at the rich people.”

“Hope likes me too.” Steve’s grin is wide and smug. “Everybody likes me.”

“Still don’t work here,” Bucky mentions. “So fuck off.” He gestures at the vegetable mix, and Clint obediently goes over to chop some more peppers.

“I hope he doesn’t talk to you like that,” Steve says to Clint. “You don’t deserve his shit.”

“Bucky talks like that to everyone,” Clint says, and Bucky catches the flicker of a grin when he glances over.

“If I ask nice, can I get the Stark Special?” Steve asks. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You’re a broke-ass artist, you can barely pay for shampoo,” Bucky shoots back. “And no, you can’t. Stark might not feel Special enough.”

“C’mon,” Steve says. “I just wanna try it one time.”

“Stevie, Jesus.” Bucky turns around to face him. This is Clint’s first night doing major prep, and he wants it to work out. “Can you fuck off, finally? Go bother Wanda and Pietro, or go have a fuckin’ seat and order the steak I know you’re gonna get.”

“Fine, fine,” Steve drawls. He turns to Clint. “I’m getting the tenderloin, so make sure it’s extra good.”

Steve leaves finally and Bucky has to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall. He breathes in, deeply, and opens his eyes to find Clint staring at him.

“Is there a way we can tell which order is his?” Clint asks him, tentatively.

“Yeah, I can ask Scott,” Bucky says. “Why?”

“Cause I’m gonna draw a dick on it in sauce,” Clint says cheerfully, and Bucky bursts out laughing so hard it hurts and Pietro peeks his face around the corner to see who is dying.

———

The night’s going fine. Clint’s got the shrimp skewers down pat, although he’s burnt a couple of the flatbreads and can’t seem to actually _manage_ the vegetables: he’ll go chop more when Bucky signals, and the balance of peppers to other stuff stays constant, but he can’t seem to keep an eye on it frequently enough to predict when he’s gonna run out. Oh well, Bucky thinks; it’s still smoother going even with the few jobs Clint’s managing. He doesn’t want to die yet, and it’s almost 2100 — that’s a good sign.

Natalia appears at the window and rings the bell. “Stark party incoming.” She vanishes immediately after, probably heading to give Thor his break at the bar. Natalia knows more about wine, which is what Stark usually likes to order.

Bucky glances at Clint. “I feel like we’ve made this a bigger deal than it normally is,” he says, finally. “I’m still making most of the same stuff you are, and all we have to do is keep doing what we’re doing. You’re doin’ real good tonight,” he adds, because he really is, and because he likes seeing Clint flush high along those cheekbones.

In fact, Clint looks especially like a model today — the underwear model look is out, sure, but he’s got charcoal jeans on that suit his thighs and a collared shirt with sleeves rolled up. Bucky’s partial to the rolled-sleeves look in general, but on Clint, it just seems to make his arms pop: forearms bare, biceps straining through the fabric. He’s undone one button more than Bucky might, probably not yet used to the heat of the kitchen, but that’s a fine look on him too, hinting at flat planes of chest Bucky swears he ain’t looking at for more than a second. Or two. At a time.

Clint grins back at him, and it floors Bucky for a second, the way he’s all confident with it; it’s a real good look on him. “Thanks, man.”

“Let’s just keep going.” Bucky gestures at the stovetop, and goes to pull up their next tickets. Sitting here and ogling Clint on a Stark Night is a bad idea, no matter how gorgeous his arms look hauling plates around. “We’re good.”

Eventually Bucky peeks around the corner to see how big the party is this time. It’s just the regulars this weekend: Stark himself, with his CEO Pepper Potts and assistant Happy Hogan as usual. Bucky recognizes Bruce Banner, one of Stark’s top researchers, as well as some dude he thinks is Tony’s - uncle? Cousin? - and another guy he’s seen around but hasn’t ever been introduced to. Party of six - that’s usually manageable without a crisis.

The orders come in, and Bucky splits away from Clint easily. He’s used to having to manage all of this himself, so it’s kind of strange: he’s keeping an eye on Clint’s meals as well as his own, but with Clint they’re moving faster on the normal orders than Bucky would do alone, which is both good and very confusing to his brain. He’s gonna have to retrain himself to be able to manage Clint in the background, cause he’s used to focusing on _every plate_ , and that’s not gonna be sustainable. Bucky pulls out the gluten-free flatbread dough he saves for Ms. Potts and Dr. Banner, warms them up, and starts to work up the pesto for those two. 

In the background, Clint’s muttering to himself, but he’s managing, mostly; Bucky’s still doing the filets, and the vegetable mix that Clint seems to have just abandoned, but the shrimp skewers are a big success in terms of Clint’s ability to get them out, as well as the grilled eggplant for the flatbreads. It’s not bad. Bucky’s probably overmanaging and hyper aware just because this is their first special service; also, he admits to himself, because he really wants to see Clint succeed.

He’s just tossed two tenderloins on the grill when he hears Stark’s voice, at the window, and he manages to keep the eyeroll to himself.

“Buckster,” Tony Stark announces, and Bucky catches him just shoving his sunglasses up onto his head as he turns. “Buckeroon. Buckmeister. How’s the kitchen, my good man?”

He hears Clint make an audible noise beside him, and turns to look. Clint’s eyes are wide, but his face is oddly neutral as he takes in Stark’s sharp jacket and facial hair. “Stark,” Bucky says, keeping his voice neutral as well. “Meet our new sous chef, Clint. Clint, this is Tony Stark.”

“In the flesh,” Tony says with a look that’s trying to be a leer as he extends his hand through the window. 

Clint takes an awkward step forward and Bucky says, deadpan, “If you touch his hand you have to disinfect your entire arm.”

Stark snorts. “Look here, Winter Wonderland, I’m here to say hello and pass on my compliments just like any faithful customer might. No need for all the sass.”

“You like sass,” Bucky grunts out, “and don’t fuck with my new guy.”

He didn’t mean for it to come out that way, and Stark catches it almost immediately. “Your new guy? Didn’t Natasha bring him into the fold?”

Bucky makes the mistake of glancing at Clint, who’s blushing again, and has this pleased look on his face like he’s happy to be claimed. 

“Mine to beat into shape,” he tells Tony, who just smirks at him.

“Wait here,” Tony says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Clint glances over at Bucky as he flips the tenderloins. “Where else are we gonna go?”

Bucky lets Clint catch the eye roll this time. “It’s Stark. We let him think he’s funny.”

He’s got the flatbreads in the salamander and the shrimp-and-scallop skewers going on the grill when Stark comes back. He’s carrying three shot glasses, and Bucky cusses under his breath when he sees them.

“For gosh sake, watch your language,” Stark says, “there’s young blood on the scene.”

“I’m probably older than you,” Clint says hesitantly, and Bucky’s now just rolling his eyes into space and hoping they don’t come back.

“Here,” Stark says. “Welcome to the family. This disjointed, somewhat irregular family - and I do include myself here, I’m kind of the rich eccentric genius uncle - and here’s to many more successful days surviving Bucky, who hates everything.”

“I _do_ hate you the most,” Bucky agrees, but he’s learnt that in this case it’s best to let Stark win. Natalia’s on bar; she wouldn’t have bothered to pour if she weren’t okay with it.

“Cheers,” Stark says, and Clint checks with Bucky before he reaches out to pick up the shotglass, which is somehow super endearing to Bucky. He nods, and clinks his glass against Stark’s and Clint’s before downing it. He knows from experience Stark only buys top shelf bourbon, and it’s kind of a waste to shoot it, but it isn’t like he has the time to hover around the window and shoot the shit with Stark while meals are on the grill top. 

“Tony?” Bucky looks up abruptly to see one of the guys from Tony’s table peering down the hallway. “Tony, leave the nice chefs alone, this isn’t Vegas.”

“Honeybuns!” Tony cheers, gesturing. “Come meet the beautiful boys of the kitchen. This is Rhodey, gentlemen, and he’s gonna—”

“He’s gonna take Tony out of your hair,” the guy says, and Bucky wonders whether Tony just only bothers to associate with ridiculously attractive people, or if it’s because rich people always look better. The thought flies through his brain but then stops immediately, cause Clint ain’t rich, and Bucky’s been barely keeping his eyes off of him all night.

“Thank you,” Bucky says to Rhodey with a nod. “Please get rid of him.”

“I bought you booze, we’re friends now,” Tony calls as Rhodey literally drags him down the hall.

Bucky steers Clint back into the kitchen with a hand at the small of his back, which feels _damn_ good until he realizes he’s doing it and steps away almost immediately. “I apologize for everything that’s Tony Stark,” he says, as he pulls the tenderloins off the grill to rest before he slices them. 

“I’m pretty sure he’s not your fault,” Clint says, glancing over to eye Bucky momentarily before going back to the skewers.

“No,” Bucky sighs, “but I’m still damn sorry for everything Tony Stark, anyway.”

———

The service goes well, the Stark table leaves pleased, and Tony leaves a $300 tip for Clint with his number on top in addition to his normal generosity. Clint goes absolutely red when he sees it and everyone laughs at his expression through the opening of Family Meal, until Natalia tells him that Tony does it to everyone occasionally, and the number leads to his weirdly automated answering service so it’s worth calling at least once for the experience. “Twice,” Bucky adds, “if you really want to fuck with Stark.”

Clint’s flushed, riding a high, and Bucky can’t help but swipe the bottle of bourbon and sneak two more shots in while he and Clint are cleaning the kitchen.

“Here, cheers,” he says, his hand stopping itself at Clint’s lower back again, making him still while Bucky sets the shot down. “I told you we were making it more of a big deal than it needed to be. You did amazingly well. I’m _impressed._ ”

Clint’s rubbing the back of his neck like he does, like when he’s a little embarrassed, but the grin he gives Bucky is all kinds of proud and happily and it hits him in the chest, feeling like his lungs are flipping over. “You made it real easy to follow, man,” Clint says, with a gesture saying Bucky should take some credit for himself.

“Sure,” Bucky allows, “but I’ve tried that with other people, up to and _including Peter—”_ he raises his voice for this bit, because he really enjoys freaking Peter out after a normally good service. “And you’ve picked it up real quick,” he finishes, gesturing with his shot glass.

Clint’s eyes catch on his for a second, and Bucky gets that awful lung-twisting warm feeling again, accompanied this time by the realization that this is Clint unmasked again: a genuine Clint smile.

“Well, cheers,” Clint says, “an’ thanks for this, anyway.”

They clink, and drink their shot, and go back to cleaning the kitchen in companionable silence. Bucky’s been surprised at Clint’s willingness to clean _anything_ , given the right directions and equipment; other people usually think themselves above all this kind of grunt work, but Clint seems to take it in stride, maybe even take some pride in being the one who wipes down the stovetop and rinses out the sinks. There’s some kind of calm in it, for him; Bucky honestly would rather give it to somebody else to do, except that he don’t trust anybody in his kitchen.

Family meal that night is raucous - as it usually is, because Stark likes to drop high dollars here - and Bucky doesn’t get any time alone with Clint without one of those masks he wears in public. Although it’s at least funny this time: Clint gets up on a chair and starts juggling the salt and pepper shakers, with Peter throwing a new one at him every time he calls for it, and when Natalia comes downstairs she yells at them for a full minute before realizing Clint was somehow good enough to not spill anything on the floor. She then pulls him off the chair and hugs him, kissing his cheek softly. Oh shit — that’s a very Natalia move, and Bucky knows it, but he didn’t even bother to consider the possibility that Natalia and Barton are sleeping together. 

Bucky heads home with a take-out box packed to the brim, for Steve, and if he’s a little quiet and lost in his thoughts, Stevie’s too impressed with the Stark version of dinner to even notice.

———

Clint waits until he’s pretty sure Nat’s asleep and then slips into the kitchen. He’d filled up two take-home boxes, cause he ran out of both Pop-Tarts _and_ cash, and he’d been so fricking nervous about the night’s service that he hadn’t really been able to eat much until Bucky’s sample plate. It’s four hours later - Clint hasn’t been sleeping well - and his starving body is reminding him that there’s food he’s allowed to eat.

He’s used to it, between his dad and the circus and all the shit jobs he’s worked in-between; hunger’s a familiar feeling to his body, almost friendly in a way. But he’s coming out of a big run of shit-bad luck, and now that there’s food that it seems okay for him to take home, he can’t help it.

He sits back on his couch and opens the first box. There’s some shrimp in there, with the rice, the end of the vegetable mix, and a huge whopping pile of Pietro’s mac and cheese. He can’t help it; Bucky’s elite cuisine might be the best thing he’s ever tasted, but there’s something about Pietro’s mac and cheese that just tastes _satisfying_. He already knows he’s gonna eat it all. He hasn’t had anything other than Bucky’s samples and the bits he’d scrounged up in at least twenty-four hours.

Tasha would kill him, if she knew, but Clint’s determined to not let her know. She’s already given him house space and a job; he draws the line at eating her food, too. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of bills with his name on it and Tony Stark’s fucking number. Like he’s gonna call the guy that can throw $300 at a fucking inexperienced idiot line cook without blinking, because they’d have so much _shared life experience._ Instead, he counts the cash, again, because he can barely believe it. He can buy _so much food_ with this and probably another shirt or two; he doesn’t know whether Bucky’s noticed, but he’s been rotating between four — no, three now, cause the one’s beyond saving with the grease spots.

Clint takes a minute to think about Bucky again. The guy just takes the time to explain things to Clint in such a great way, terms that are simple and easy to understand, but totally capture what he needs to know. It’s been easy to follow his methodical steps, and even if Bucky gets short, it’s never directly at Clint.

Clint’s barely even used to that. Most of his previous jobs - the ones that had been jobs, rather than dumb shit he got paid for on the side - people had spent most of the time ragging on him, assuming he was dumb just cause he’s deaf, and blaming him for all kinds of crap just cause he kinda looks like trash. Bucky’s been so _nice_ to him that one half of Clint is quickly falling in love with the guy while the other half is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As he shovels the macaroni into his mouth, Clint lets himself think about it for a bit. Just a bit.

Whatever it is, it ain’t worth thinking about. He can’t keep taking up Tasha’s space. All he needs is a good cash cushion, and he’ll move on.


	4. the signs were lit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky starts teaching Clint how to make his own food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I AM NOT DECEASED

Days go by, and then a couple weeks, and then Clint’s been there for a month and they have a special Family Meal for him where Wanda makes him this beautiful cinnamon roll (Clint’s favorite, apparently) and Natalia gives him a bit too much wine and Clint ends up flushed and blushing for the rest of the evening.

Bucky’s taught him how to smash and mince garlic; how to chop onions in three different ways; how much olive oil a pan needs for a variety of meats or vegetables; how to prepare fresh basil or parsley. Clint can work the crock pots, the rice cooker, the warming oven, and he’s getting the hang of the flatbread oven — although there have also been four fires, and Wanda and Pietro have cheerfully added Clint to their monthly competition.

For Bucky’s part, it’s been a blessing. Clint picks everything up visually: Bucky just has to show him once, twice at the most, and Clint’s got about three-quarters of the technique already. The rest will come with practice, and Bucky has faith; Clint shows skill around the knives, at least, although it’ll be a long time before Bucky lets him cut up meat again.

The thing is, Bucky really isn’t sure how Clint’s settling in. He’s been there a month, and he comes to every Family Meal, but he’s barely made connections with the other workers. He and Wanda and Pietro do a mean running pun-fest some nights, and he’s seen Clint joking around with Sam, and - most surprisingly - Clint’s hit it off with Kate, to the point where she’s now doing more kitchen support than Peter, but that’s it. It seems kind of superficial, a surface-only sort of interaction, and Bucky doesn’t feel real good about it.

Part of that is that he’s got a fuckin’ whopper of a crush on the guy, now, now that Clint’s been up in his space almost daily (Bucky does take Sundays off, as well as an occasional Wednesday, no matter what Steve likes to imply) and he’s gotten to know the guy better. Clint has an incredible sense of humor, topped with a sort of loyalty to Bucky’s kitchen appliances that seemed weird at first but now makes sense within the context of Clint’s pride. Clint’s told him, in bits and pieces, about working other jobs that become a lifestyle rather than a separate workplace, and it makes sense. Bucky appreciates that — the hands-on approach, the attention to care, the acknowledgment that nobody’s too good to clean up their own shit. 

It’s also that as time has gone on Clint’s outfits have just gotten more and more stylish, and Clint is hot as hell, and Bucky thinks Natalia might be picking out his outfits just to tempt Bucky to distraction.

But the other part - the non-selfish part; or, he should say, differently-selfish - is that the kitchen’s slowly getting used to having a sous chef there, and now that Bucky sees what it could be like with experienced help, he ain’t too keen to lose that help and go back. Everything runs so much more smoothly with Clint here, from appetizers all the way to the biggest Stark Night they’ve had in months. It ain’t just that Clint’s clever and quick: it’s that he’s truly talented at this kind of work management.

And Bucky’s afraid that Clint’s gonna bolt on them. 

By now he’s seen the look in Natalia’s eye when she looks at Clint - and he’s at least 65% sure they ain’t banging - and it’s becoming increasingly fond, especially when Clint’s slotting himself into place during a service or on a Family Night where he’s having fun with the others. Natalia’s so ready to welcome him into this family - and Bucky is too, truly, for a bunch of reasons he doesn’t want to talk about - but Clint seems to have slippery feet and dodges questions any time someone asks whether or not he’s staying, or for how long. 

If Clint leaves, it’s gonna hurt: it’ll hurt the family, who already are wrapping their arms around him; it’ll hurt the kitchens, as Bucky has to get used to working alone again; but it’ll hurt Natalia, the one of them who’s put so much of her very self into this, and Bucky really doesn’t want to see that happen.

So Bucky thinks. He doesn’t want to lose Clint, and he doesn’t want to think about why all too well, and so he’s trying to think of new things he can teach Clint, new tricks for him to learn, stuff that’s beyond a normal line cook that he might find interesting. 

———

Bucky gets an idea during a busy service and tries to hang onto it through their frantic struggle to keep up with what appears to be a sudden thirst for their surf-and-turf option - four shrimp and a 3oz filet over creamy, cheesy risotto - that’s backing the entire goddamn kitchen up.

Cooking the shrimp and the filet is Bucky’s job, and he has to mix up the risotto in order for Clint to follow it on the stove, so Bucky knows he’s the weak link here but somehow it doesn’t get any _better._ It culminates when Clint’s trying to grab the pasta and Bucky’s got a hot pan in his way and the resulting cuss-fest draws Pietro in from the other kitchen.

“Boss,” Pietro says, “you look very much in the mess. Very unprofessional.”

“Pietro,” Bucky hisses, holding Clint’s arm under the cold water and hoping _really hard_ he isn’t burnt too badly, “you either help, or you get the fuck out.”

“You are angry,” Pietro says, “I will get the fuck out,” and leaves.

Clint flinches away minutely, such a brief moment that Bucky isn’t sure he would have noticed if he weren’t holding Clint’s entire arm. 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly, softly. “What?”

Clint just shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, tones clipped. “Bad memories.”

“Shit, I am _so sorry,_ ” Bucky murmurs, running his hands just outside of the burn area on Clint’s arm because he can’t stop himself, he fucking burned Clint with a pan and his chest feels two sizes too small.

“Oh, fuck it, I’ve had worse,” Clint says blithely, and then Bucky flinches a bit away from him. They both realize how close they’re standing all of a sudden and Bucky gently pushes Clint’s arm to keep it in the water as he backs off.

There’s definitely a different air between them as the evening winds down and Bucky takes a brief moment to say, “Hey, Clint? Any chance you can stay behind for a little bit?”

And Clint glances up at him, those gorgeous eyes wide and unveiled, and says, “Yeah.”

The end of the service comes, and Bucky waves to Nat in that way that tells her he’ll close up today, and Nat actually smiles at him gratefully as she heads out the door. She must be working extra hours lately. Bucky resolves to not ignore that, but for right now he comes up behind Clint where he’s piling the stainless pots into the sink. 

Bucky catches at his arm, and then says, “That can wait for a bit.”

“What are we gonna do?” Clint asks, and Bucky’s hand has found its way to Clint’s lower back - again - and is turning him back to the stovetop.

“I’m gonna teach you how to make the whole menu,” Bucky says, and it’s way lower than he intended, much more than a murmur. “If you like.”

“If I like?” Clint turns to look Bucky in the face and he’s grinning. “Yes. _Yes_ I like. Show me how to make that steak.”

Bucky heads over to pull out two skillets and set it on the stovetop, saying, “Normally a sous chef is kind of support, but you’re catchin’ on to a lot of what we do here, and I kind of figured you’d like to know how to make an actual meal, rather than a load of sautéed garlic.”

“Garlic is good,” Clint says cheerfully, but he watches intently as Bucky gets them set up. The oven’s still hot, which is nice, and his cast iron pans heat up well on that particular burner. Perfect.

“Here you are, our filets.” Bucky pulls them from the paper wrapping in the fridge and sets them down on a clean cutting board. “Get some olive oil on them, and then salt and pepper, like you’d add to a normal meal.”

“Hey, I know where all of those things are,” Clint says proudly, and Bucky can’t help but grin back at him. 

“Good,” he says, “you prepare them while the pans and the oven re-heat. I’m gonna check the floor.”

He leaves Clint humming happily over a piece of meat and walks out to check the tables. They’re all stripped, all except one: close to the bar, seating for two, the candle still lit, flowers in the middle, and an open bottle of wine with two glasses. There’s already ice and water in the water glasses, and the napkins are resting tidily on the plates.

Huh. It’s nice of Natalia to set it up for them; it’s obvious Clint hasn’t seen much of the high life. She must want to treat him to something special, the same way that Bucky does. How she guesses these things, Bucky has no idea, but — he’s been her friend for long enough to just accept it.

He heads back in to find Clint washing olive oil off of his hands. Bucky hovers his hand over the skillet and checks the oven. “Okay, everything looks good,” he says. “First rule is that you want that cast iron pan hot. _No,_ don’t touch it, just hover your hand and you’ll be able to — yeah.”

Clint looks dangerously close to scalding himself, but he just nods and says, “Okay. Then what?”

He’s looking at Bucky with his face relaxed, open, as if this is something he really does want to learn. It’s incredibly charming, and Bucky isn’t known as a soft person overall, but he kinda feels all warm with Clint looking at him like that.

“You’re gonna drop them in the pan, let ‘em sizzle for about 45 seconds, then you’re gonna flip them and do that to the other side. Then we pop that pan in the oven and make a sauce.”

Clint’s eyes narrow. “But that isn’t how you were making them tonight?”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at that. “Nope. I’ve learned a couple shortcuts in here for when shit hits the fan.”

“Shit hits the _pan,_ ” Clint interrupts, already laughing at his own joke.

“Oh my god, that’s terrible.” Bucky’s shaking his head, and he knows there’s fondness in his look. “Never say that again.”

Clint just shrugs. “It makes more sense.”

“Less talking, more cooking,” Bucky says, imitating the pronunciation of one of his old bosses, and Clint snorts but obediently drops both filets into the pan. That sizzle as it hits is just _perfect_ ; Bucky knows he’s a weird food person, but it’s one of the greatest sounds in a kitchen, that roar that rises from oil and meat on heat.

“Here.” He hands Clint the flipper, and watches the meat. When it’s sat enough to have a great sear, he gestures, and Clint clumsily flips both. It’s funny, Bucky realizes, because Clint’s naturally graceful - not sure where it came from - and he only fumbles when it’s his first time doing something, when he hasn’t practiced the motion. Bucky is curious whether that’s innately Clint, or if it’s something he learned from one of his many random tries at employment.

“Okay,” Bucky says. He hands over the oven mitt, and turns off the gas. “Carefully get that bad boy in the oven. It’s fuckin’ hot, watch out.” He opens the door and Clint cautiously shoves it in, taking care - cast iron’s always heavier than anyone expects, even when they’ve been working with it for years - and the smile on his face when he turns triumphantly to Bucky lights up something in Bucky’s chest like a firework. 

“Good,” he says, dumbly, because he’s staring at Clint a little bit too long; this proud smirk really lights up his eyes, and Bucky takes a step forward before he can even fucking help himself. Clint’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t recoil; he kind of leans into it, honestly, and he’s looking at Bucky’s mouth for a bit while they stand there, frozen.

Bucky blinks and turns away, gently moving out of Clint’s space. “How do you like your steak?” He hates how it comes out low and flirty, because his brain wants to flirt. It’s a frigging steak.

But Clint — seems to pick up on it, because he’s still got that penetrating gaze on Bucky. He smirks and tips a shoulder. “I don’t really… know? What’s good?”

“What’s _good,_ ” Bucky says in astonishment. “What’s _good._ If that was a real top-of-the-line filet we’d be eating it by now.”

“Really?” Clint’s face twists in this remarkably charming gross-out. “I dunno. Every time I try to eat somethin’ raw, I pay for it.”

“Is it like, from a dumpster?” Bucky asks, and then just shakes his head while setting the oven timer. “We’re aiming for medium, maybe medium-rare. Gives us five or six minutes to make you a nice sauce.”

He walks Clint through a couple steps, ingredients he thinks the guy’ll like. Clint obediently chops garlic - plenty of garlic - and onions and mushrooms and cooks them up in butter while Bucky starts adding things he thinks are gonna taste good: some red wine, a splash of balsamic, some beef stock. More salt, and a ton of pepper. Clint stirs the sauce, keeping it from sticking as it boils and thickens down. 

“Okay, turn the heat off of that, and pull the pan out of the oven. Do _not_ burn yourself. Get the filets on something like that cutting board, let them rest for a bit.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint says sarcastically, but he’s already moving for the oven mitt.

Bucky heads out to the floor and grabs the plates off of Nat’s carefully prepared table. When he brings them in, Clint’s just fishing the steaks out of the pan, setting them on a clean cutting board. “How hungry are you?”

Clint rubs at the back of his neck and looks at Bucky, sheepish. “I’m always hungry, man.”

“Alright.” Bucky goes to the fridge, pulls out the leftover risotto he was gonna bring home for Stevie. Each plate gets a curve of risotto, and then Bucky sets the filets in place and perfectly drizzles the sauce over them. He always gets this little jolt of satisfaction when he makes a plate that could be photographed, and this is a good one.

Clint’s watching him, and when Bucky looks up it’s into that intensity again. Clint’s eyes are grey-green in this light, and his head is tilted, and he looks desperately fond in a way Bucky really, really hopes is real.

“After you,” he says, gesturing out to the floor.

Clint pauses for a moment - just a brief trip in his step - when he sees the single table with the candle and the flowers. Then he picks up like nothing’s happened, and sits down at the table, leaning back in the chair to look up at Bucky through his lashes. And, well, _fuck._

“Your very own home-cooked meal,” Bucky says, his voice surprisingly stable as he sets the plates down and collapses in his own seat.

Clint’s at least distracted by the plate. Bucky knows why; there’s something to seeing your own food actually set out in a fancy table setting, at least the first couple times. 

“Looks good, doesn’t it,” he says, and his voice comes out low and thick.

Clint’s shaking his head, vaguely, and his voice is full of wonderment when he says, “I have never made anything this fancy in my entire fucking life, Bucky.”

“You made it,” Bucky points out. “And what’s fancy? It’s oil, salt, and pepper. The sauce can be made with almost anything you have on hand. It’s as fancy as you are,” he finishes, cheeky with it, and Clint’s face wrinkles as he grins at Bucky.

“Are you breaking out all of your _smooth lines_ cause we’re alone,” he starts, but then his eyes catch again on the candle and the wine and Clint’s face wrinkles further as he frowns, thoughtful, at his wine glass.

Bucky hastily reaches out for the bottle, pops the cork, and pours. “Natalia — Tasha, she had this sitting here for us when I came out.” It’s a Zinfandel, one from old vines that’s one of Bucky’s favorites - it’s got dark berries and a hint of chocolate in its taste - that pairs well with steak. As the look on Clint’s face grows a little more incredulous, Bucky horrifyingly finds himself babbling on about the wine.

“It’s an Old Vine Zin, which means the vines have been there longer; it changes the flavor of the grape. Should go really well with this, cut the richness of that risotto. Zins are usually darker, dryer, those are my favorites — shit, Natalia picked this, is there something you like better?”

He finally cuts off his traitor mouth to find Clint, who looks a little bit surprised and overwhelmed, but has hints of fond teasing around his eyes.

“Bucky,” Clint drawls slowly, “this is starting to look like a _date_.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, and then closes, because _holy shit, Natalia,_ it certainly looks like a goddamned date.

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, gesturing at the table and the candle and the flower and _well, fuck_.

He glances up at Clint, who still has this tentative look on his face that’s equally full of resignation and hope, and somehow Bucky’s dumb mouth takes over again.

“I didn’t mean it to be,” he says, soft, honest. “But.”

“But,” Clint repeats, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky. God, Bucky hopes he’s reading this right; Clint can be _so_ hard to follow if he has one of his inscrutable-person masks on. 

“Well,” he manages to say. “It doesn’t have to be one if you don’t want to.”

It’s maybe unfair to turn the tables back on Clint when this started as his idea —and jesus, if Bucky Barnes was gonna plan a date for a fella like Clint Barton, he’d do something a whole lot smarter and definitely with more warning than, like, thirty seconds after closing. 

But now Bucky’s curious, _and_ he’s never met a bad idea he doesn’t want to run with, so he’s gonna roll them dice.

Clint gives him a crooked smile, and some of the lines of tension around his eyes start to fade, which is a good sign. Instead of answering, though, Clint gestures to the table and says, “Tasha set this up, didn’t she?”

“I literally had the idea in the middle of service and said _nothing_ to her,” Bucky blurts out, and why the fuck can’t he be smooth like usual? “Came out to find this and honestly thought it was just a nice gesture until we sat the fuck down.”

“You never know with Tasha,” Clint murmurs, and now there’s a smirk playing around his lips as he gives Bucky that look through his eyelashes again.

“Well,” Bucky says, and there’s the swagger he’s been looking for. “How do you wanna play this?”

Clint’s gaze goes dark for a second, and his eyes are nearly boring into Bucky’s with this intensity Bucky doesn’t have a word for. There is literally a shiver up his spine. There are butterflies in his stomach. There’s _want_ in Clint’s face, finally and entirely exposed, and Bucky feels gutted with it, so much that he knows his own want is staring back out of his own face.

Clint’s eyelids flicker shut, quivering for a moment, and then as they open Clint’s mouth turns up at the corner. 

“I kind of like the idea of being able to cook for a first date,” he says. Bucky notes it isn’t a total commitment - is he training Clint or dating him? - but it’s enough that he can work with.

“Cheers, then,” he says, sliding into the playful smile he knows gets a response, and he’s rewarded at the high blush on Clint’s cheekbones as their glasses clink.

Clint glances back down at his plate, enthralled all over again by his filet. “Is it okay to be nervous about your own cooking on a first date?” He asks, almost tentative, and Bucky snorts.

“Buddy, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, I was there the whole time. Go ahead and enjoy it.” And, his mind clocks somewhat belatedly, apparently it _is_ a date.

Clint cuts into the steak and the juices run out - a _perfect_ amount; Bucky mentally claps himself on the back - and he fucking moans at the sight of it. It’s more medium than medium-rare, Bucky notes as he cuts into his own, but that’s alright. The boundaries are flexible.

_“Holy shitting fuck,”_ Clint says as he swallows his first piece. “Bucky, did I actually make this? With my own hands?”

“I watched you do it,” Bucky says, with unmistakable pride in his voice; he expects Clint to cringe, but he actually preens under Bucky’s regard, so he continues. “This is fucking delicious, Clint, nicely done.”

Clint’s face after hearing Bucky’s praise is something to be treasured, this cloud of joyful surprise, a wonderment Bucky didn’t expect, and it’s such a fucking look on him that Bucky almost dives over the table for Clint’s mouth. But he doesn’t. He sips the wine and continues to eat this very good steak.

“It’s hard to believe,” Clint offers, as he eats another piece and follows it with the risotto. “You’re good, you’re real good, Bucky.”

Bucky wants to follow that with something like, _you haven’t seen how good I am,_ but he restrains himself. “You pick it up real quick, Clint. It’s easy to show you things.”

Clint shrugs, tipping a shoulder as he shoves more of the filet into his mouth. “It’s just that like, a couple months ago, I was eating beans out of a can.”

_“Holy shitting fuck,”_ Bucky says, deliberately repeating Clint’s phrase, which makes Clint smile through a mouthful. “Look, when I’m home I don’t do this kind of shit, either. No big deal. But you should know, cooking it ain’t a big deal either.”

“I would make this _every day_ if I could,” Clint manages to get out, as he eats the last bits of steak and goes to town on the risotto.

“Hey,” Bucky says, because he has to _ask_ at least, “is Natalia not feeding you or what?” He keeps it jovial, a joke that Clint’s welcome to disregard, and he’s excessively pleased when Clint levels a look at him but also shrugs.

“I’m already sleeping on her couch, I’m not eating her food too.” It’s just a little piece of information, but it tells Bucky _miles_ about Clint, and he can’t stop his face from going soft. “This is different. I only eat, like, the stuff that gets made, normally, the stuff that would wind up getting tossed. It’s cool.”

Bucky presses a hand to his face, because this is so bizarre. “Yeah, Clint, it’s okay, whatever you eat here is fine. But you also, like,” and he really isn’t sure how to phrase this. “You’re allowed to enjoy a meal here because you want to, not just because it’s heading for the trash.”

Clint blinks and his face looks seriously confused like he doesn’t even understand the concept. “This is bad first date talk,” he says eventually, and Bucky snorts at that. “Tell me what you do for fun.”

Bucky takes a long sip his wine and watches Clint over the rim of the glass. Clint looks back, equal parts intrigued and stubborn. Bucky sets the glass down and, finally, deigns to respond. He doesn’t really know what’s going on here, but he really likes whatever game they’re playing. 

“Free time,” he starts, forming the words as if they’re foreign. “I’m sorry, I don’t have so much of that right now, I own a fucking restaurant.”

“You half own a restaurant,” Clint corrects him, but he’s grinning. “Does that really take up that much time?”

“You live with Natalia,” Bucky shoots back. “I’m sure you understand how much time she spends on our books, our ads, our social media, right? I spend that much time in the kitchens, or arranging menu items and grocery lists, or looking for upgrades we can afford. It’s a pretty consuming job.”

“But it isn’t consuming either of you,” Clint breathes. “I mean, okay, I don’t know you that well but I’ve never seen Tasha this happy. She’s _thriving._ ”

“I have this theory,” Bucky offers, refilling both of their wine glasses. “That some people are just consumed by this need to, I don’t know, provide for people. Cook for people. Give them nourishment. Serve them amazing tastes. The feeding-people gene. Natalia and I both have it.”

“Why do you call her that?” Clint asks, genuine curiosity on his face. “You’re like the closest friend she has, other than _maybe_ me.”

Bucky smiles sadly and takes a very long drink of the wine. “I call her Natalia, and she calls me James, because that’s who we were in the Institute. We continue it to…” He’s never really said this part out loud to anyone else, even Steve, and he only tells Clint because Clint understands Natalia, too. “It reminds us of where we came from. It’s a foundation.”

Clint’s face darkens as he scowls. “I fucking hate that institute,” he says. “It messed Nat up _so bad,_ and I know it separated you two so it ain’t your fault, but she was so… Fuck.” He swigs some wine down, looking as emotional as Bucky’s starting to feel. “That’s when we met, and I’m not gonna be the one who tells you about Budapest, but I fricking hate that place, and I’m not changing my mind.”

Bucky reaches across the table to grab Clint’s hand before he’s even thought it through, and Clint shifts his hand and flips so that his fingers intertwine with Bucky’s, and the press is so fucking intimate that Bucky has to fuckin _close his eyes_ for a second, and apparently it’s been a long time since he’s had this kind of contact cause he’s just weak to it, his palm on Clint’s palm.

“I’m the last person who’ll defend them,” Bucky says, slowly. “But there is something to be said about skills forged in a fire.”

It’s a Russian phrase he doesn’t expect Clint to get — except Clint’s friends with Natalia too, and he sees an instant understanding. 

“I ain’t got any schooling, let alone an institute,” Clint admits, “but Nat’s said the same words about me. I get it.”

Clint’s thumb is tracing lines against Bucky’s wrist, and it’s the smallest and lightest touch but Bucky feels _on fire_ with it, with Clint’s first home cooked meal in his belly and Clint’s face lighting up across from his, and Bucky squeezes at his hand and seriously hopes he ain’t reading these signs wrong.

At this point he’s finished his steak, and Clint’s cleared his plate, so Bucky reaches out with his shaky dead hand and picks up the wine bottle, determined to pour the remains into their glasses with minimal error. The shaking’s obvious to his eye, but he tries his hardest to keep it still. 

Clint’s eyes, of course, catch it, and Clint purses his mouth before he says, “Can I ask, or is that a no fly zone?”

Bucky chokes a laugh, but then considers that Clint might probably understand. “It ain’t the best first date topic, either, but I’ll tell you what you’re askin’. Got stuck handling an incredibly hot cast iron skillet that led into a grease fire.” He finishes pouring, sets the bottle down, and flexes his fist, releasing Clint’s hand so that he can pull the sleeve up to show the scars. “Works mostly fine, but I’ve got a lot of dead nerves there. Have to be careful, cause I could set this hand right in the oven and it wouldn’t tell my brain we were on fire until it was way too late.”

“Jesus shit,” Clint breathes. He reaches out to take Bucky’s dead hand in both of his. Bucky allows this gesture, the way Clint traces the pads of his fingers even though he can barely feel it; the way his eyes follow the burn scars from the splattered oil.

Clint’s mouth opens, then closes, and Bucky watches as it opens again.

“Is that why you don’t really care about this?” Clint asks, making a gesture towards his ears.

“I barely remember you’re hard of hearing,” Bucky admits. “You always hear me just fine.”

“You yell.” Clint smirks at him and takes a gulp of the wine.

Bucky huffs. “I do not. I speak at the volume that lets my frustration out before it can build and then blast everyone like an exploding pressure cooker.”

“Christ,” Clint laughs. “I can’t imagine it. You’re always so… even-keeled.”

“Maybe on the outside,” Bucky returns, “or maybe if you’re unfamiliar, but I really am not.”

“Nah.” Clint hasn’t let go of his dead hand, and although Bucky can’t feel it as well, the trace of his fingers on _that_ skin has the nerves in the back of his head lighting up: the look of his calluses against the wrinkled skin, the tenderness with which he’s touching it, as if he doesn’t care that it’s horrifyingly ugly. “You’ve been incredibly patient with me, an absolute outsider, despite all of the million things I’ve fucked up.”

“First of all, that’s called being a mature and professional adult,” Bucky throws back, “but second, you really haven’t messed up as much as you think you have. You’ve got a good eye.”

Clint laughs at that, harder than Bucky expects, and Clint must catch the look of confusion cause he says, “Remind me, someday, I’ll tell you how good my eyes really are.”

“Not tonight?” Bucky says, leading with it, glancing at both their empty wine glasses. He hopes he looks coy and teasing, but it’s more likely that he looks fucking infatuated. “Or are you going to save it for a second date?”

Clint gives him another one of those looks through his long lashes, and Bucky feels sudden panic hit his gut, until Clint’s smirk goes soft, into a smile that’s probably as appreciative as the look on his own face. “I can’t give away all my secrets now,” Clint says, and there’s a hint of wistfulness in it, as well as truth.

Bucky sighs. This is stupid; the guy still hasn’t committed to anything here, and Bucky’s sure feeling a lot more than expected, and this is gonna end in tears. But hey, Bucky’s never met a bad idea he didn’t want to hang around with a bit, and it’s certainly Stevie’s turn to feed _him_ ice cream and comfort, after his breakup with Peggy.

“Let’s get you home then,” Bucky says, and he’s successful at keeping that particular feeling out of his voice, so that Clint just smiles all crooked and genuine up at him. “Help me clean up?”

They take the dishes into the kitchen, put the pans to soak, tuck away the seasonings. It’s almost immediately obvious to Bucky what Clint’s doing, veering a little too far into his personal space, brushing close as they pass by the sink, and that makes it easy for Bucky to turn into Clint as he drops off some silverware and murmur, “Hey,” up at him as he slides himself up against Clint’s body.

The kiss is soft, little more than their lips brushing, and Bucky feels something heady sink in his stomach as his eyes flutter open to look up at Clint. Those goddamned kaleidoscope eyes are looking down at him, and there’s plenty hid in Clint’s expression but there’s plenty showing too: want, sure, but also some kinda ache Bucky’s never seen before that makes him want to kiss Clint’s face off. He’s pushing back upwards before he knows it, and it’s the feel of Clint’s fingers on his face that has him sighing into Clint’s mouth as their lips meet again.

Clint’s hands are holding his face, cheeks and jawbone, and they’re shaking so so faintly against Bucky’s skin as Clint carefully, methodically, meaningfully kisses Bucky back. It’s still mostly soft, but Bucky can feel an intensity behind it, as if Clint’s trying to tell him something without losing control. Bucky flicks his tongue out to taste Clint’s, and he tastes like wine and spices and something _new_ , and Clint shifts momentarily to suck at Bucky’s lower lip before pulling away. He keeps his hands on Bucky’s face as he takes in a breath, and Bucky thinks it’s more shuddering than Clint wants it to be, so he takes his hands from the place they’ve found on Clint’s hips and brings them up to cup Clint’s face.

The look in Clint’s eyes is amazing: there’s some sort of awe, really, like a sense of wonder that Bucky’s even letting him do this, and Bucky wants to kiss him again and again until that ache fades. But Clint’s pulled back and Bucky can read this kind of trembling body language, so all he does is say, “That was nice.”

Clint makes some kind of noise in agreement and bends in again, his fingers tightening their grip momentarily; the kiss is sweet, a little slow, and then Clint steps back and their hands drop to their sides.

“I should head home,” Clint says softly. “Tasha’s already gonna be unbearable, you know?”

Bucky snorts. “Natalia can say what she likes,” he replies, “but I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I,” says Clint, and it’s that same wistful tone that makes something in Bucky clench up with feelings he isn’t sure he can identify at the moment. “Thanks.”

“Go on,” Bucky says, gesturing. “I’ll take care of the kitchen, there ain’t much left.”

“Goodnight, Bucky,” Clint says, and his smile goes crooked as he ducks out of the door.

———

Clint stares up at the ceiling again, wrapped in every blanket he can find like a burrito wearing a hoodie. It isn’t much comfort, but it’s what he has right now, and he needs it because he’s starting to feel shook, truly shaken to the core.

He replays the evening in his head, carefully, like everything is made of delicate glass: the simple fun of cooking with Bucky, the most delicious steak he’d ever had; the wine, the joking, the kissing. It’s released something mournful in him, the part of himself that likes to think about setting down roots, about staying somewhere. About trusting someone.

He knows Tasha would never deliberately hurt him, but she and Bucky can’t control everything about their business, and the restaurant is successful but it isn’t stable, probably? Right? There have to be a thousand people more qualified to work a kitchen with Bucky. There’s no guarantee he could stay; it could easily make sense down the line to bring in somebody else, to send Clint off to his next stop.

He’s never felt so torn before. Everything about _The Red Room_ has him bewitched: the friendly people, the delicious food, an atmosphere full of jokes and snark and people who care. Tasha. Bucky. Clint can imagine a world where he stays; where he and Bucky can date, like real adult people, and he can hold down a job and have a savings account and maybe a little apartment of his own somewhere. It’s easy to imagine that world, to create it in his head. Almost too easy.

And that’s why he can’t trust it.

It isn’t Tasha or Bucky. It’s Clint’s own life-luck, the way shit seems to follow him like a shadow. There’s a catch, somewhere, that’ll come, and Clint’ll be left somewhere again, alone and broken and useless.

At least this time he’ll have a nicer duffle bag full of nicer clothes, and a respectable pile of cash. _And the memory of steak,_ his brain says; _and grilled shrimp, and the scent of garlic, and as many kisses as you can steal before it’s all over._

It’s what Clint Barton always does: go on until everything breaks down, then pick up the pieces and head for the next town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i owe everyone an apology; this chapter has been written for like thirty years, and i've just now realized i was working on chapter 5 (!!!) without having posted chapter 4 (????). many thank to the BDBD for the sprints AND for the reminder that my arseheaded self should keep working on these things.


	5. be ready when the moment comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an OSHA violation occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patreon asked for another chapter, and they shall have it!

Bucky doesn’t intend it at all, but from the second Clint walks through the door there’s this electric tension between them that’s incredibly distracting.

“Tonight’s margherita flatbread pizzas, shrimp or salmon over fettuccine Alfredo, and stuffed peppers,” he tells Clint, trying to work everything around back to normal. “Wanna walk it through and see how much of it you can handle?”

That sense of anticipation is still there as they move through the kitchen, and Clint’s definitely using Bucky’s personal space as if it’s his to claim, and Bucky’s frankly alarmed at how much he fucking _likes_ that from Clint. Once he figures it out he starts reciprocating in turn - a hand on Clint’s lower back to turn him away from the stove, or brushing his shoulder as he reaches for the ladle - and catches a sizzling glance from Clint that makes him want to throw his flatbread in the garbage and kiss that look right off Clint’s face.

He can’t, he really can’t - it’s another Stark Night, and he’s still trying to figure out how to glam up a stuffed pepper - but if Clint wants to play this kind of game, Bucky’s going to play right back.

“We’re gonna need a lot of garlic,” he tells Clint, who smirks up at him as he grabs the biggest knife out of the block.

“This is my favorite part,” Clint says happily.

“I know,” Bucky replies, with as much flirt in it as possible, and he catches Clint’s wide grin as he starts breaking apart garlic cloves.

It’s sweet, really, now that Bucky thinks back, that he can pinpoint the things Clint really enjoys doing in the kitchen: anything having to do with smashing, up to and including mashing potatoes with the hand mixer, something that Clint will sing along to, made up lyrics like _I smash you now_ sung out in a surprisingly tuneful voice for someone hard of hearing. He loves energetic chopping; although he can’t tell a dice from a julienne, yet, his knife cuts are surprisingly consistent for whatever size he ends up choosing that particular minute. And he loves cooking meats and proteins, the sizzle in the pan, sometimes making an adorable hissing noise back at whatever’s in the oil as it cooks.

 _Shit,_ Bucky thinks. This is _bad._ He’s fucking falling for the dumb fucking sous chef.

But he still sets Clint at the tasks he likes the best: mincing the garlic, dicing tomatoes for the flatbreads, cutting down red peppers and sweet onions. Bucky takes the other jobs: pressing out the flatbread dough (which Clint still sucks at), browning up the mixture of ground beef and pork he prefers for stuffed peppers (which Clint finds boring), and prepping the workstation with the ingredients for the Alfredo sauce (which Clint always gets wrong -- _why is he still thinking about what Clint likes)_. 

And they’re working around each other smoothly even with this buzzing tension in the air. The fact that Clint’s hands and arms keep brushing up against him is a distraction, but it isn’t necessarily a disruption; it gives Bucky a warm feeling down in his gut, which in turn helps him focus on what he’s doing with a smile on his face. And he’s enjoying returning the favor, making sure Clint can feel the heat in his gaze and the pressure of his fingers whenever he has a chance. It’s like playing a game, amongst all the other things they’ve learnt to do together in this kitchen.

Natalia stops in to go over the Stark Night menu, and Bucky can read the smirk in her eyes as well as anything. He tries to stop himself from blushing, but then remembers that Clint probably knows her just as well, glances over at him, and blushes more.

This is _stupid_ and Bucky doesn’t even care right now. Banging the sous chef is the _worst idea_ and he’s sort-of gripping onto it with both hands, and maybe his teeth.

Dinner service begins. Sam and Hope are both here, cause there’s a big Stark table Sam can focus on while Hope runs the rest of the staff. Bucky only knows this because Scott’s trying to hit on her every time they meet back at the server station, and he can hear Luis going off in the background. Scott’s an alright guy but Bucky finds Luis funny as _shit_ and he ends up sending Clint over there, early in the night before it’s busy, so that he can figure out what kind of gossip Luis is spilling and come back to tell Bucky.

Sure, they’re a family, but Bucky can still occasionally be a nosy asshole.

The night takes off as usual, and Bucky’s dropping pasta and pressing out flatbreads as Clint, diligently, stuffs peppers for the oven and arranges the mozzarella and tomatoes over the flatbread pesto sauce. Their rhythm is even better than usual, even with all of the extraneous glances and touches, and Bucky has a moment where he sees the future kitchen working just like this -- having Clint to take care of the details so he can really step his dishes up a notch, really start letting _The Red Room_ cuisine shine through, Nat’s concepts and his skills finally coming to fruition. And he doesn’t have to be the boss of the sous chef, Natalia could totally be both of their bosses so it isn’t even weird when they steal kisses in the kitchen or smack each other on the ass with spatulas -- wait, _why is Bucky even thinking about this._

He tosses the shrimp in his pan and scowls. This is _way too far_ to be gone after a few simple kisses, and it’s also Stark Night and any future plans he and Natalia have will probably need Stark’s raving reviews, so it’s time to double down and make sure he has the space he needs. Bucky decides he’s gonna do a twist on a _seafood_ stuffed pepper, mainly because he’s never seen one before, but he thinks he can get it to work. Crab and lobster, which he’ll have to prep now since they didn’t plan on any for the specials - he’s gonna have to steal from Pietro, who will give him shit for hours - but that’ll be delicious and maybe he can add a big cocktail grilled shrimp for visual emphasis too.

“Hey, Snowman,” says Tony Stark, and Bucky turns with his scowl to find Tony hanging off the kitchen window, grinning loosely. It look like _The Red Room_ might be Tony’s second stop of the night, cause wherever the first stop was seems to have filled him up with enough booze to be rakishly charming. Bucky thinks Tony’s a pain in the ass nine times out of ten, but even he can’t argue that the little fucker is incredibly attractive.

“I hate your nicknames,” Bucky says as he tosses a serving of fettuccine into his skillet and adds a ladle of the sauce. “Also, go away.”

“Part of the joy of a Saturday night is my presence,” Tony says, all casual and easy as he leans up against the sill. “The other part is cash, of course, but I like to think I’m a good solid sixty percent.”

“Maybe ten,” Bucky offers, because sassing Tony Stark is what he’s good at.

“How about you, hot stuff,” Tony calls over towards Clint, who’s concentrating on brushing the pesto over the top of a flatbread. “I notice you never called me, by the way.”

“Tony,” Bucky warns, just as Clint turns to meet Bucky’s eyes with a slow grin for half a second before completing the full turn to look at Stark.

“Maybe my price is a little higher than normal,” Clint drawls, and Bucky can’t fully suppress his snort as he glances over to see Tony’s face dropping into mock outrage.

“I don’t like when people call my bluff,” Tony says, in that voice that’s both flirty and mild, so that the other person can interpret it as they like. Tony’s not as stupid as he plays, Bucky knows. In fact, he’s brilliant, and almost as good at reading people as Natalia, and Bucky would love to watch him work someone over if only he didn’t show up in Bucky’s goddamn kitchen to work his own people down. “You flirting for fun, or what?”

And this is why Bucky simultaneously likes Tony and wants to throw him out the door. Stark flirts with anything that moves and causes Bucky no small amount of stress, but then he does these sort-of checkins, where he uses his own bluntness to make an opening where people in bad situations could say something back. Bucky knows what Stark’s really asking. Back in the Institute, there were no such outlets, and they all had to keep quiet against all kinds of abuse. Every time Tony pulls something like this, and Bucky starts to get mad, he only has to think about Natalia before the rage dies down. He’s offended that Stark thinks he’d _ever_ stoop to that level, especially after the Institute, but he appreciates the way Tony checks too much to stop him.

“If I were flirting for real,” Clint says, slowly, and Bucky glances up to see that he’s giving Tony that heated look he remembers from across the table. “You’d _know_ , Stark.”

Tony dramatically clutches at his chest, but he’s grinning at Clint as he does. “Nicely played, gorgeous.”

Clint grins back and oh, fuck, Bucky isn’t going to be able to take it if Clint and Stark become _friends._

“Why are you _here,_ ” he says to Stark, as he selects six shrimp and tosses them in a pan with some sesame oil. 

“You’d miss me if I didn’t, Winter Wonder.”

Bucky snorts. “I miss you like I miss Stevie’s asthma, Stark.”

“Wounded.” Tony winks at Clint and moves to leave. “Absolutely wounded. The service I get here is so awful.”

“Go talk to the manager then!” Bucky yells after him.

Clint’s laughing when Bucky turns to look at him, and Bucky’s smile goes soft at it, the way Clint’s entire face lights up when he’s happy.

———

Finally it’s Bucky’s day off; on Tuesdays they run no specials so that he can like, take care of his life for a little bit and sleep for eleven fucking hours. Thank fuck for Steve, who does a little extra housework because he works from home, and never seems to mind it because Bucky brings him restaurant leftovers. 

He sleeps the usual eleven fucking hours because running a restaurant is no joke, and then he lies in his bed sprawled over his five pillows and thinks about Clint Barton.

It’s going to be a problem. Bucky can see it, and Bucky can feel it, the inevitability of a hurricane landing: not knowing exactly where the storm will do the most damage, but knowing it’s coming. 

He doesn’t do this a lot. Bucky’s friendly, charming, can get along with most people, but he really doesn’t connect with all that many. There’s his family back home, then there’s Stevie, for almost as long as his family. Then Natalia, with all of that bullshit and baggage. He should probably add Pietro and Wanda to the list, too, since he has ended up being a mentor to them as well, although those feelings are an entirely different kind of connection.

So there’s something here with Clint. Something that wants to grow; the potential, really, to build a close relationship out of this. It doesn’t even have to be a relationship - although Bucky isn’t going to lie about how badly he wants to get his hands on Clint, to hear those soft noises again - if they guy needs a solid friendship, Bucky can do that too. There’s just a level where, well, yeah.

Bucky finds it hard to really connect to people who haven’t seen some shit in their own life. It’s the stupidest and worst thing to say, and it isn’t always true -- he likes Scott, who’s been through some shit with his daughter and some jail time, but who seems to have come out of it without the overlying shadow of trauma Bucky can’t ever seem to get rid of. Scott wears his life like a new face; Bucky’s not there yet. Bucky’s unlikely to be there unless he quits the restaurant and spends the seventy or so hours a week that frees up in therapy for the rest of his life, and honestly, he’s okay with carrying a little bit of darkness if that’s the other alternative.

But as he’s starting to know Clint, as he’s starting to see, Clint’s carrying around a number of his own shadowed pieces and broken parts. Bucky can equally see that Clint’s got his own armor up around all those pieces; the guy’s a walking circus, a magician with tricks, drawing the eye away from those vulnerable shattered marks. Bucky’s maybe honored just to see pieces of them, and _hell_ do they draw him in, but he’s not gonna lie and pretend he knows any more of Clint than the other man has been kind enough to show him. 

There are two ways it can go. It’s like building a flavor profile, slowly; it’s like aging a wine. Sometimes the spices and the sweet and the tang all come together, perfect chemistry, and you’re tasting ambrosia at the tip of your tongue; and sometimes the mix is wrong, and there’s nothing but acidity and vinegar to be had. Bucky’s seen both, even in the limited number of times he’s opened himself up. When he goes in, he goes all in, falling hard, and he’s apparently never learnt to not take the leap.

Maybe. Maybe he can push a little bit more; maybe he can try, nurture this small thing like a broth, a low simmer as depth develops over time. He’s just afraid Clint’s going to go, and Bucky just doesn’t like being left.

———

“Ramen,” Bucky says, and Clint’s eyes light up.

“No fucking way,” Clint says to him, already smirking, and Bucky casually notes Clint’s standing an inch or two closer to him as they look down at the large stockpot on the range. “Ramen’s, like, ten cents a bag and terrible. And delicious. I have it every week.”

“No,” Bucky says, turning to grin up at Clint, turning it into a smirk as he watches the blush bloom high on Clint’s cheekbones. “Real ramen, done Red Room style.”

“The fuck is ‘real ramen’?” Clint glances over at the sous counter, where Bucky has a bunch of ingredients sitting in wait for Clint to prepare and chop and manage. “It’s a brick of noodles and a packet of spice.”

“Hmm.” Bucky makes the note as provocative as he can and is rewarded watching the blush spread further down Clint’s face. “Watch and learn.”

He walks Clint through it, spending a moment on each ingredient, making sure Clint’s quick eyes take in his skilled estimated spoonfuls. “Onion, garlic. Minced ginger. Basil. Cilantro. Sesame oil, mostly straight but a little bit of this hot sesame oil, trust me, you’ll like it.” He watches it simmer over medium heat, the smell rich and spicy. “You don’t have to sauté it the whole way, but let it all soften, and breathe.”

Clint leans over to smell, and his face looks shocked. “That isn’t ramen-y at all,” he says, although his expression says it smells good.

“Ramen-y isn’t a good kitchen word,” Bucky replies. He gathers the next set of ingredients. “Add the broth, yeah, about a gallon. Fill ‘er up.”

Clint bemusedly works to add chicken broth to the pot, working in 4-cup increments based on their measuring cup. “That’s a lot of stock.”

“It’s popular,” Bucky says, grinning. “Now, watch: miso paste.” The large dollop splashes its way into the pan. “More miso paste.” He likes to mix two kinds, because this is his restaurant and why not. “Soy sauce. Some tamari.” He stirs, lets it mix, lets the paste dissolve into the water as it heats. He’s starting to see that opaque coloring, the brown of the broth, and he can smell the beginnings of the soup coming together. “Mirin. A little more soy sauce, eventually you can tell by the color of the broth. See it?”

Clint sniffs, and then says, “Holy shit.”

Bucky preens, just a little; he’s been making this for years, because Steve can somehow consume literal pounds of it, but he’s always happy when he can impress Clint just a little. The appreciation warms him, makes him just that little bit more comfortable, and makes him want to continue and show Clint what’s up.

“Okay. So this simmers, here, for a long ass time. If you want to get really fancy at home, add some celery, carrots, and a lot of mushrooms. Shiitake are the best, but anything will do. But let it all blend together.”

Clint takes the spoon, stirs it up, smells again. “No seasonings?”

“They’re already in there,” Bucky points out. “Basil, cilantro, and we’ll add a little bit of green onion at the end. If you want, you can add a dash of curry powder — it really, really opens up the broth in a new way; I like it best that way, but we’re just serving regular here, so we’ll be boring.”

“Boring,” Clint snorts, and okay, it’s a little bit funny.

“Right.” Bucky leads him over to the noodles he’s brought out of their pantry. “These are dried, yeah, but they’re dried from fresh at _Masaki’s_ , that little Asian grocer on the corner of Willow and Pippin?” Clint nods, although there’s really no recognition. “We do ramen night about once a month and they make it all fresh for us and dry it, so it has a longer storage life, but still tastes better than mass produced. It’s really, really good.” He takes one of the bricks and drops it into the boiling water. “Cook these separately for the meals. If you’re making it one time for yourself you can cook the noodles in the broth just fine; this just lets us put more out. Four minutes.”

Clint nods, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It’s new; it’s one of those things that tracks your steps, and other shit, but Bucky’s noticed it buzzes sometimes with what he thinks must be texts from Natalia. His current working theory is she’s trying to teach Clint to stay in touch. It’s a good sign, except from where it’s a bad sign that he needs it.

“The ramen gets topped with a soft-boiled egg, some of the roast pork that’s in the oven, sesame seeds, and freshly-chopped green onion.” Bucky cracks the egg and drops it into the simmering broth. “It’s okay if the egg breaks, shred it up and drop another. Eventually it looks like egg-drop soup, but the customers still seem to like it.”

Bucky can feel Clint’s eyes on him as he scoops the noodles out of the boiling water and arranges them in the bowl, adding two full spoonfuls of broth - one containing the egg - and then shreds of the roasted pork. He lets Clint add the toppings, and then holds out a pair of chopsticks, smirking.

Clint takes them with a challenging glint in his eye, and blows across the surface of the hot soup. Somehow the gesture is endearing; there’s a pout to Clint’s lips that seems exaggerated, and his face is warm from the steam and the kitchen and from looking at Bucky. It’s a really, really good look on him.

Eventually it gets to the point where Clint risks a bite; he snags the noodles easily, slurping them down, and then his eyes go wide and he’s blowing at the surface even as he slurps at the side of the bowl, too eager to get at the broth even though it’s burning his tongue.

Bucky watches him eat, eagerly, even though Clint’s cursing at the heat on his tongue; he spears the egg and watches the yolk semi-cook through the broth and that’s when Bucky finally offers him a spoon. Clint’s raving, half-swearing and half-praise, his mouth half full at any given moment, spoon in his right hand and chopsticks in his left, gesturing wildly at Bucky and the bowl and the ceiling in a pantomime Bucky’s sure is going to lead to spilt broth and burnt skin. The entire bowl disappears in record time, the pork gone in seconds, and the whole time Bucky feels this growing sense of satisfaction in having created something - simple, to him - that has brought so much emotion and pleasure to another person he cares for.

“This is the greatest fucking miracle I have ever put in my mouth,” Clint tells him, fervently, and Bucky just smiles and makes him another bowl.

———

It takes a few days until there’s a point in time where everyone is closing down, no family dinner, and Clint seems to be dragging out the cleaning of the pans in the sink; Bucky lets him, still distracted by the unexpected success of his crab cakes. He’d gone a different angle, all curry and cumin and smoked paprika, with sweet baby peas inside, and they’d actually run out of crab, for fuck’s sake. 

He’s hovering over the report Natalia dropped off, trying to reconcile the numbers and predict how much crab they’re going to need next time, when he feels Clint sidle up to him, something like an electric field settling over his skin as the other man nears. 

“Whatcha lookin at?” Clint asks, leaning in, a gesture that surely isn’t innocent at all with the way his body comes into contact with Bucky’s right arm.

“A good night,” Bucky replies, cause he wants just a second to make sure Clint’s askin’ for what he thinks he is. “Ran out of crab. Good profit. Running the numbers for next time.”

“The crab cakes were fucking astounding,” Clint says, admiration plain on his voice. He’s still pressing up against Bucky’s arm, but content to let it pass for the moment. “I do not understand how you do it but I could have literally eaten twelve of them.”

“Maybe.” Bucky turns to look at him, not moving his body an inch away from Clint’s as he does so. “If you hadn’t eaten two of the loaded potatoes first.”

“ _Oh my god,”_ Clint groans, “that was _not my fault,_ you put _chili_ on them, even if it was that gross vegetarian version it was _sooooo_ good, I don’t know how you even exist.”

And that’s a statement that has Bucky turning more, using the motion to pull Clint into his orbit, even closer, so that he has a hand on Clint’s hip as he looks up, only inches away. It occurs to Bucky that this is Clint’s game - that he’s so far fucking gone, he’ll set the situation up, but it’s Clint’s move to make or not - but somehow it doesn’t bother him, as he waits, and wants, and watches.

Clint looks down at him, eyes wide, his mouth still curled up in frank appreciation, and for a second Bucky can see the same things reflected back at him: a want, and a waiting, and a sense of wonder at the fact that something’s growing here, in the spaces in between. And then Clint blinks, but it isn’t necessarily - hidden - it’s more that the gaze shifts to something much more urgent, much more here and now.

Bucky licks his lips because he needs to say something, but apparently that’s all he needs to do before Clint’s mouth takes his: hot, and urgent, and deep, devouring Bucky like he isn’t full, won’t ever be full. Bucky startles with it, a gasp Clint eagerly swallows as he licks into Bucky’s mouth, and they both taste like the specials of the day but Clint’s mouth tastes like something else, something special, hot like the heat rising from a pan, all metal and scorch in the air, on the back of his tongue.

Bucky’s taken aback, surprisingly, and he allows Clint to back him up against the back counter only because he knows his own kitchen like he knows his own hands - spotted with burn scars, sliced with knife errors, the left one lacking sensitivity - and it’s familiar; he knows where he is, physically, because the rest of his senses are caught up in Clint’s mouth and Clint’s _hands,_ which appear to be tangling in his hair and cupping the back of his skull and simultaneously running up and down his chest like the worst tease he’s ever had. Bucky feels like he wouldn’t know what was going on if he was anywhere other than his own kitchen, one he built with his hands from bare bones, and that feeling is grounding even as he nips up at Clint’s bottom lip, wanting to taste the fullness.

His own hands are rebels; Bucky is barely aware of what they’re doing, and he’d like to be, because he’s getting glimpses of feeling: Clint’s hair, short and a little shabby, _just_ long enough to tug at; the planes of Clint’s back, all smoothly slotted together, absolutely no surface area to spare; even the lines of Clint’s abs, through his shirt, as Bucky runs his knuckles up the other man’s torso and notes, somewhat distantly, the shudder Clint can’t quite suppress against the touch.

But the thing is Clint’s _mouth;_ fucking _hell,_ and Bucky has kissed his fair share of people, but Clint’s mouth is _demanding,_ wanting, _pulling_ at him, this level of desperate devouring that’s nothing like Bucky’s ever had. It’s Clint’s errant focus, his erratic ability to just blinders-on against everything else in the world, the way Bucky feels like every single atom in Clint’s body is feeling this kiss. It’s fucking _heartbreaking_ is what it is; Bucky feels stunned, like he’s been punched with something he isn’t going to feel in its entirety until _hours_ pass.

But until then, he’s trying to keep up with Clint, trying to press something back against this gaping need - and how has he never really seen this? Bucky’s smart enough to have identified Clint’s want, Clint’s thoughts of belonging, some of Clint’s fears - trying to fill what he’s quickly discovering to be a devouring hole, Clint desperately asking for something he needs and Bucky only wanting to give it to him, willing to deliver if only he can find the language Clint’s speaking.

Bucky pulls back to take the most ragged breath in his life: Clint’s mouth follows, plying lips and tongue on his jawbone, against his stubble, moving back to the space beneath Bucky’s ear. With that one breath Bucky _grounds_ himself, placing his body mentally in his own kitchen: his own safe space, the place where he’s best, the place where he knows himself. He notes, a thought that immediately slams on the brakes to skid into the front of his brain, that Clint’s body is pressed tightly to his; that Clint’s hips are shifting in tiny little movements that belay the desperation only because they’re so stuttered. Bucky realizes he’s hard as hell, and he can feel the long heat of Clint rucking up against him, as if even Clint doesn’t want to recognize the motion, as if Clint’s trying to deny himself the comfort of Bucky’s body.

And that fucking does it. 

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat and _opens._ He lets his body language sag, bending back over the table, pulling Clint down into the kind of backbending kiss people don’t often manage. He makes sure his back is stable against the table edge - he trusts his table like he trusts everything else in his kitchen - and then he stops thinking rationally and brings his left leg up to wrap it around Clint’s thigh momentarily until Clint leans in and unbalances them both. The noise Clint makes is more delicious than anything Bucky’s ever had in this kitchen, and it’s that simple gesture that somehow lets Clint know it’s okay to just let go.

And _fuck._ Bucky’s used to having senses flooded - he works in a kitchen, right, and either taste or smell or touch can go haywire at any given moment - but that doesn’t excuse the way Clint just rolls right in like a fog: the taste of his mouth, the way Clint licks right in between Bucky’s teeth as if he can’t even help it. The way the scent of Clint, all kitchen oil and sweat and laundry detergent and arousal, has just invaded his nostrils as if it’s a weapon. The way Clint’s making these noises that sound entirely involuntary, as his hips are simply generating the small noise he’s making in the back of his throat. Bucky’s nearly already lost, as his own mouth tries to swallow those noises, and he’s never been harder in his fucking _life._

Clint, somehow - while he’s pushing Bucky up against the table with just the power of desperate, tension-bearing hips - manages to work his hand in-between them, sliding it first up under Bucky’s shirt, slowly enough that he can feel every single callus on Clint’s fingertips, can feel the way the burn on his wrist he got last week on the saucepan still hasn’t healed. Bucky shudders and there’s nothing he can do to help any of it, and then Clint’s hand drops to press against his abs before starting to tease the button of his jeans. 

“Yes,” Bucky breathes before he’s even aware that his lungs are working, are still expelling oxygen against the massive fog of Clint that’s taken over. “Please.”

Clint seems incapable of any kind of speech, the way he’s looking at Bucky as if he wants to open up his jeans and crawl inside, and Bucky’s struck by some massive rush of emotion in his chest, so fucking thick he can suddenly barely breathe through it. Clint’s eyes are so wide, the multicolored ring of his pupils barely visible around the black of his eyes. Bucky feels the button on his jeans give, and then the zip, and Clint’s hand cups his cock through his boxers -- and it’s like an electric shock, somehow, like the time his mixer blew the breaker and he had to admit he didn’t know shit about wiring; somehow it’s all mixed up in that and this heavy feeling in his chest and Bucky’s hips _spasm_ into Clint’s hand with absolutely no shame and the longest wanting whine he’s ever heard in his life.

Clint’s mouth is moving as if he’s trying to say something, and Bucky wrestles control of his own body back long enough to get his hands to the waist of Clint’s ridiculous skinny jeans. Ridiculous only because Clint has the thighs of a god, and skinny jeans aren’t meant for people who are likely to bust out of the seams, but - Bucky focuses, finds that his hands are running up and down as much thigh as he can reach - _hell,_ it’s delicious. He brings his hands to the fly of Clint’s jeans and realizes belatedly that he’s so turned on they’re shaking. “Can I?’

Clint nods. His whole face has broken open, Bucky realizes; there’s more feeling there than he’s ever seen Clint show, written across the lines of his face: desire, in all capitals, stark across his cheeks, but - also something that’s both darker and softer, a need that isn’t just about Clint’s hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, something that’s _empty_ and yearning. Clint hasn’t said a word in what feels like hours but his face is doing all the talking to Bucky, and even as he undoes the button fly on Clint’s jeans he’s reading, scouring, scavenging Clint’s face for every single piece of emotion he’s projecting.

But then Clint’s fingers brush the tip of Bucky’s cock - he moves his hand in slowly, carefully, already sweaty-slick - and Bucky’s eyes just wrench shut as he ruts up against Clint’s palm as if he’s going to die otherwise. Bucky wonders whether he’s ever been this turned on in his life. A chuckle catches in his throat because, well, it’s something that would make him self-conscious except for the way that Clint’s hand _just_ fits around his cock like so; perfect pressure, perfectly pressed so that all he can feel is the slick friction of skin against tender, hot skin.

 _Focus,_ Bucky thinks, because at this point he really needs to see Clint’s dick; he might actually die here if he doesn’t and then it’ll take Natalia months to get through the OSHA paperwork. Bucky slips his fingers into Clint’s beltloops and tugs, downwards, and even though Clint seems to be having some kind of out-of-body experience here he makes this intense little whining sound as Bucky tugs first his jeans, then his boxers, down those thunderous thighs. Clint’s cock is hard and bobbing, twitching on its own, and Bucky immediately has to wrap his hand around it; chefs are hands-on, and Bucky needs to feel it, velvet-hard and already leaking, ready for his fist.

Clint makes another choked-up noise and then says, “Buck.” His voice is low and harsh and gutted like Clint’s wrecked, like he’s only holding on to the brain cells he absolutely needs to make these words with his mouth, like every single other nerve in his body is standing to attention and looking at Bucky. It’s the first thing he’s said in days, since they were talking about dinner, and the sheer stroven _want_ of it has Bucky floored. “Your kitchen.”

Bucky’s touched, he really is. Clint knows how he feels about his space; Clint remembers where this is happening; Clint knows him, Clint’s been paying attention, Clint’s been saving the right things and learning where Bucky’s absolute soft spots lay on the map of their interactions. Bucky also wants to thrust into Clint’s hand until he’s blind and gives absolutely no fucks about anything else. Natalia could walk in and pour herself a drink and he’d still be here with his fist around Clint’s cock like nothing else mattered in the entirety of the universe. “I will _hose it down tomorrow_ if I need to. Don’t _stop._ ”

Instead, Clint tucks himself up against Bucky again, closing the space they’d created between their bodies while undoing jeans and maneuvering hands. It means Bucky doesn’t have as much leverage, trapped between Clint and the table, but it’s a delicious place to be, and Clint’s working him with a slick fist as if he looked inside Bucky’s brain and picked up on every single thing he likes. Bucky’s afraid he’s doing Clint a disservice since he can’t seem to focus enough to do anything other than shuck Clint’s cock in his fist like the world is ending, but Clint has devolved into these little huffs of breath into his neck and this noise on repeat that sounds like Clint’s about to possibly explode.

Bucky knows the feeling. His entire body feels like it’s a pot set to boil with the lid on: overheating, pressure building up, golden heat bubbling from Clint’s hand around him. He doesn’t have any other way to think about it. He’s working on moving his hand along with the sharp, aborted movements Clint’s still making with his hips; his own dick, in Clint’s hand, is caught between them in glorious pressure and he’s completely beholden to the moves Clint makes with fingers and thumb. Clint’s hard breathing is edging on moaning, now, and that’s just like an extra on top; Bucky finds he loves the sound of it, needs to hear more of it, wants to hear this desperate gasping in his ear every time he comes for the entire rest of his life; he shifts his hips ineffectively just to move something and sets his mouth against Clint’s neck because he has to touch that tender skin or die.

Clint gasps something into his ear that isn’t even close to a word; Clint’s said three goddamn words to him in the past ten years they’ve been doing this, and Bucky’s mouth is working on Clint’s neck to swallow every single noise he might make. There’s a whine Bucky doesn’t realize is him until he realizes how fucking close he is, and then it becomes “oh, _fuck,_ Clint, I’m--” and this long drawn-out desperate gasp as Bucky comes in his goddamn pants pinned up against his own prep table with his eyes rolled so far back into his head all he can see is black and white like stars against midnight.

He must be lucky, because Clint takes the opportunity to press even harder into Bucky, his body a hard, tense line against Bucky’s slowly melting bones; his hand is the only thing about him with any kind of awareness, and Bucky devotes his last two remaining thoughts to teasing his thumb around the tip of Clint’s cock and then working him fast and slick until Clint makes a sound more delicious than anything ever generated in this kitchen and _slumps_ over Bucky’s shoulder, spilling out over his fingers in stuttered spurts, hot and thick. It goes on longer than expected and Bucky just undulates his fingers somewhat, providing sensation without pressure to help Clint ride through all of the aftershocks. Clint’s mouth is open around the tendon from Bucky’s shoulder to his neck, his head hanging heavily, not biting so much as securing a stable place with his teeth; Clint’s body shudders from head to toe and the sigh he releases has something deep and poignant in it, as all of his weight settles momentarily against Bucky as if they’re two planets colliding in the night.

Bucky can barely think. His brain’s scrambled like a maze; his body feels so good, so fucking good, and the last thing he ever wants to do is move: but he can feel a tension building in Clint’s beautiful orgasm-soaked limbs - still for maybe the first time since they’ve met - and Bucky doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the tension to come to anything, and so he brings both arms around Clint - sticky hand and all, for fuck’s sake, it washes out - and wraps Clint up in the kind of embrace he rarely gives to anyone except Natalia or Steve.

To his surprise, Clint - with awkward tension mounting, with that vibrating feeling in his bones - Clint sighs, and then absolutely drops into Bucky, face buried, his arms around Bucky’s waist as if Bucky’s the only thing standing in this new landscape.

Bucky’s a little sympathetic. He hadn’t expected his entire world to ring like a bell and rotate round some new axis, either.

\------

Bucky comes in early the next day to hose the kitchen down. They’d cleaned up their personal, uh, messes the night before, with somewhat embarrassed laughter, but he still feels responsible for his kitchen. They must have broken twenty OSHA regulations and another dozen of the local restaurant laws. It was a dumbass thing to do, which is admittedly part of why Bucky enjoyed it so much. Knowing deep down inside, having that secret, being able to glance over at the table and know that he’d shared that long intense moment with Clint - remembering the way Clint shuddered, the way Bucky’s own hands had shaken - there’s something that’s deeply, intensely satisfying about it, something that’s a little too close to predatory, to _claiming._

And Jesus, they hadn’t even taken their clothes off. Bucky might actually die whenever they finally fuck.

He’s exhausted. He hadn’t slept well, too wound up even after absolute orgasmic bliss; his mind kept running bits and pieces of it over and over in technicolor, interspersed with the soft kiss Clint had given him before leaving. Bucky doesn’t — he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s _never_ fallen like this before. It isn’t the speed of it, really - he’s done dumber - but it’s the intensity of it, the long distance between where he was yesterday and where he is now having heard Clint shudder out his moans against Bucky’s neck as if they were the only two beings who mattered in the whole world. He’s in fucking goddamn love, or lust, or some stupid combination of the two. Clint had occupied his thoughts all night, as Bucky rolled around in his bed and cursed his stupid brain.

Of course Natalia walks in as he’s mopping the floor. She raises one eyebrow, delicate and smirking at the same time, but makes no comment. Bucky wouldn’t put it past her to have figured it out, but like fuck is he gonna admit it to her face. 

“You and Clint,” she says evenly. Bucky almost chokes anyway, cause he really doesn’t want to talk about how he happily defiled his own kitchen and would do it again in a heartbeat—

“Are you serious?” Natalia continues, and Bucky freezes. 

“How do you mean that?” He tries to keep his voice even, but it’s just a game they play together. He knows almost all of Natalia’s tells, and she’d figured his out the first month they were in the Institute — but they both enjoy pretending they’re normal, not-fucked-up type people.

“Are you serious about Clint.” Her mouth goes soft, one corner twitching into a smile for a second before returning to her usual placid expression. 

Bucky shrugs, and he sure ain’t gonna lie to Natalia. “I’d like to be.”

That produces one of Natalia’s _real_ smiles, “Good,” she murmurs. The silence falls around them, and Bucky goes back to mopping, because he knows Natalia will say what she wants in her own time.

“Clint has had it — rougher than you know,” she begins. 

“I don’t want you to,” he starts, his gesture aborted and awkward. 

Natalia reaches up to the top cupboard and pulls down Bucky’s whiskey.

“Natalia,” he tells her, pretending to be _shocked._ “It’s fourteen-hundred hours.”

“So we’re two hours late,” she tells him, with that wide smirk that’s been hers for years. To his surprise, she hops up on the counter and takes a swig from the bottle, holding it out to him.

“That’s disgusting,” he murmurs, and goes to take a sip.

“Don’t talk to me about food standards, James Barnes,” Natalia warns him, and Bucky chokes on the liquor going down his throat, just managing to swallow rather than spurt it all over her.

“I am not telling you anything,” he tells her, taking another - more professional - swig and getting back to mopping. 

“You never have to,” she purrs back, plucking the bottle from the counter and taking a long delicate sip.

Bucky goes to rinse the mop in the bucket and squeezes it dry with the little contraption on the handle. He just has to get the floor mostly swabbed, then he can sit with Natalia and drink for fifteen minutes while it all air-dries.

She’s silent the whole time he finishes, and quiet as he heads out back to dump the bucket and prop the mop and the rig up on the basement stairs again, and doesn’t speak until he’s settled in on the counter next to her, the bottle resting between them. It’s a shadow of their days at the Institute, except it had been one of their bedrooms, and cheap vodka, and more panic and frightful tears than either one of them wanted to admit to. 

When she finally speaks, it isn’t at all what Bucky had expected. “I want Clint to stay,” she says, not looking at him.

It’s so rare for Natalia to actively _claim_ a want; for her entire life, anything she’d admitted to wanting has been a thing others can hurt her with, a thing that can be taken away or lost and marked as a failure of her own personal worth. It takes Bucky aback, a bit, that Clint’s worth this much to her; but then again, Natalia keeps all of her pieces to herself, and doles them out so slowly that each one is like a gem.

“I want him to stay for — for him,” she continues, and her voice is so even that Bucky can tell she’s holding back some significant emotions. “This is good for him, having a place with a regular paycheck, a place that won’t take advantage of him or — or treat him poorly. I want him to stay for me, too; I’ve missed him. I even want him to stay for you,” and this is when she tips her head sideways onto Bucky’s shoulder, “because no matter what’s going on that I don’t know about, you’ve been happier.”

Bucky slips an arm around her. “I want him to stay for all of us,” he tells her, pressing a kiss into the crown of her head. “This place runs better with an extra person in the kitchen, and he’s taken to it so well. Nobody else would pick it up that fast. He knows the ins and outs. I would want him to stay even if I wasn’t…” He trails off, but Nat snuggles her head a little closer, so he admits, “interested.”

“He won’t, though,” Nat breathes, and it hits Bucky in the gut, harder than expected. “He runs. He always does. He thinks that if he runs, he won’t — if _he_ runs, then he’s the one hurting, not the one getting hurt.”

It makes sense, but a stupid kinda sense, so Bucky says nothing. 

“I don’t know how to make him stop.” The sigh that shakes Natalia’s shoulders is deep, and rough. “I’m surprised he’s still on my couch. He hasn’t been eating my food. He shoves cash into his duffle bag like I’m not going to notice, and when I ask whether it’s for a security deposit for an apartment, all he tells me is _I’ll stop bothering you soon, Tasha._ ”

Bucky hooks his chin on the top of her head, in her hair, and pulls her closer. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, and that’s even _worse._ Natalia - the Natalia of the Institute - may never admit to wanting anything, but she _absolutely_ never admits that there is anything she doesn’t know.

“No,” Bucky tells her, and feels her jerk as she sits up.

“We’re not letting him,” he says. The look in her eyes is clearly wry, as if asking: _how so?_ “I don’t know, okay, but we’re not letting him be a — a stupid idiot again.”

“That’s a pretty broad statement,” Natalia says, but she’s smiling again.

“Okay,” Bucky concedes, “we won’t let him be a stupid idiot about _this,_ particularly and specifically. We’ll just… I don’t know. But look what else we’ve done together.” He gestures around the kitchen, mad, suddenly blazing with it. “The Institute. The Red Room. All these things we’ve built.”

Natalia just looks at him for a long moment and Bucky fears he’s overplayed his cards: like, his _own_ heart doesn’t know how he feels about Clint, let alone his head. But somewhere inside him, like a little disturbance lodged under a rib - an oyster with a grain of sand, hoping to make a pearl - he knows he’d only want Clint to choose this life deliberately, as specifically as possible, leaning all-in into the mess of the Red Room kitchen; there’s nothing of trickery that belongs here, just honesty and a vein of belonging running through everything they’ve built.

He realizes Natalia is still staring at him, her eyes clocking every microexpression he’s made since his brain wandered off and left the rest of him here on the counter. He shrugs, tipping a shoulder; he doesn’t offer Natalia every feeling he has, but it’s been years since he bothered to hide the strong ones from her, and she’s paid him back with the same. He refuses to be ashamed by it now; he might have, back in the Institute, but he’s come a long way.

“Fine,” Natalia breathes, and then she curls into his shoulder and Bucky places both arms around her as if he can still keep her safe: this bright-fire spark, these urges in her that left others reeling but only bring Bucky in for more, the candle-wax from which she burns. Natalia hasn’t needed protection in at least a decade but Bucky still feels his heart wrench with how much he _wants_ to save her, soul-sister and life-companion, from anything that might hurt. 

———

As usual, Clint waits until Natasha has gone off to the master suite before slipping out to the kitchen. He’s managing to keep himself pretty well-fed these days, but it feels like there’s a gaping bottomless pit inside him, making up for the weeks he’d starved here, refusing to eat Tasha’s food. Not to mention the long time _before_ he’d given in and headed to Tasha, those weeks of bumming and begging and dumpster-diving - a thing he’s too familiar with - and cold. 

Hunger is the most familiar thing Clint knows. It’s been there since his childhood, his alcoholic dad and abused mom never having enough to go around — and then when he and Barney ran away, it was there too. All his intermediate jobs were like that, too, scrounging pennies as he took whatever work was available. He’s always been hungry, and it sits in the back of his throat like an echo, like he doesn’t know how _not_ to be.

But he has his own shelf in Tasha’s pantry now, carefully stocked with things that he likes. Energy bars, potato chips, cookies — but also pasta, and rice, and there are a couple things in the freezer that are his, too. Tonight he has leftovers from work, so he carefully and quietly puts them on a plate and heats them up in the microwave. He never wants to be more of a disturbance than he already is; he’s so careful to clean up everything he uses, put it away, not do anything that might change Tasha’s mind.

Because the truth is—

The truth is that Clint has a neat couple hundred dollars inside his duffel bag. Which is the worst place to store it, except that Natasha’s got a good security system and everyone else in her building is terrified of her, so Clint doesn’t mind. And he’s —

It’s hard, because every time he tries to think about it, the sweep of panic shuts him down: he’s ahead, for once, he should save it, stash it around the country, because who knows where his stupid luck will take him next?, but the fact of the matter is:

The fact of the matter is that Clint has a better mobile, now, and service that’s actually on Nat’s plan (she’d done it without consulting him and when he’d insisted he had to get his own, she’d just pretended she didn’t understand English any more), and he has the four hundred dollars it would take to put down a security deposit on the charming little apartment he found a couple blocks down. It’s shabby, sure, but it’s his kind of shabby: weirdly shaped rooms with, just, _odd_ structure that makes you wonder what this place was before it had been split into four apartments. Big enough for him, for a while, and if he kept getting paid what he makes at the Red Room he’ll be able to afford it _and_ eat. It’s absolute luxury.

And his brain continues to yell at itself. Because if he gets his own place, he’s no longer a drain on Natasha, no longer doing anything that might make her angry or kick her out — other than work, but Clint knows how to be good at work. It’s safe. But then _settling down_ into a place isn’t safe at all, cause the second Clint tries to let his guard down and breathe a little, disaster finds him and then he’s on the move again, whatever new enemies or ex-friends who wanted to use him left behind.

He’s been burned so many times. 

He pulls the microwave open just before it dings, so that there’s as little noise as possible, and takes his plate of food to the table to eat.

It’s just — _god._ The stability of this moment is so _tempting,_ and Clint’s starting to think that even if it burns him in the end, it might be worth it. He has a good job, which pays well and gives him access to free food; he has Tasha, who would never _on purpose_ do him wrong. And there’s Bucky: oh, _god,_ Bucky.

Clint stills for a moment, remembering the way he’d kissed Bucky like he was the most delicious thing in that kitchen; his sudden _need_ for Bucky had been _astounding,_ a man realizing suddenly he was parched, and Clint’s been dry and on fire ever since. Even now, thinking of it - those noises Bucky made, the way he pulled Clint in like Clint was not only _welcome_ but _desired,_ the way Bucky kissed him like an invitation - his dick twitches inside his pajama pants and Clint lets out a long slow exhale that wants to be a moan. He wants _more._ He wants Bucky beneath him and shuddering. He wants to see Bucky’s face when Clint takes him apart.

And yeah, maybe that’s not healthy either, but Clint can’t _help_ it. His hands have touched Bucky and now he needs the entire package or he’ll go mad over it. He hasn’t wanted anything this badly since he was seventeen and Barney’d sold him out for cash and he suddenly, viciously, wanted to make Barney pay. 

The want bleeds into his other wants and Clint takes a moment - puts his fork down - to really think about it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a place here; an apartment doesn’t have to mean roots, and he’s still as mobile as he’s always been, no real important possessions to his name except his gear. A bit doesn’t have to mean forever. Maybe it’s stupid to not take the time to lie here, lick his wounds, and build up some safety cushion for the next time the shit really does hit the fan. 

All of Clint’s life has been making the best out of a series of shit opportunities. If a good one falls in his lap, shouldn’t he take advantage of that too?

It sounds like he’s trying to talk himself into it, and the truth is, Clint knows he _is._ He _wants_ to be here, with Tasha, in this job with these people, in something with Bucky. He just knows the second he reaches for something it fuckin’ falls and breaks and he’s left with pieces and parts and nothin’ else.

But what if he didn’t think of it as permanent? What if it was just another step in his journey — just one that lasted a little while? Have some time, make some money, get some damn sleep, and then the next crisis that boots him out on his ass will find him in better shape to handle it. That’s a line of argument Clint can’t really fault too much.

Plus, it gets him out of Tasha’s hair before she gets sick of him. People always do.

Clint finishes up the pasta and the shrimp and makes sure to carefully wash and dry and put away everything he’s used. He never wants to leave too much of a mark in anyone’s life; it doesn’t ever turn out well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my original intention was to fill this fic out with a bunch of characters, but Clint and Bucky are dominating it as usual and I don't want to break off from their storyline. Would people be interested in, like, an "outtakes" fic consisting of all the shit I planned between the restaurant employees? Pietro pranking Scott, Luis somehow knowing all the gossip, Sam having a crush on everyone? Still starring Clint and Bucky but like, building the world out a bit?


	6. cause i'm getting closer, oh, i know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a question, a service, a date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A shorter chapter", I go to type, as I realize that "shorter" still means over 5000 words, and I want to throw myself into the ravine.
> 
> This is a fair update, but it's actually mostly an excuse for... OSHA violations of the third kind.

Bucky has another day off, and for once he decides to use it to his fullest. He texts Clint to tell him that it’s Bucky’s day off, and Clint’s welcome to take the same, but if he wants a new experience and some cash he’s welcome to go in and spend the evening working with Wanda and Pietro as they man the kitchen. Clint texts back something vague and Bucky sighs; Clint will probably be at the restaurant that evening, but if anyone can handle him, it’s the twins. They’d warmed up to Bucky as a role model, but they’re both particularly taken to Clint as if he’s an older brother; it’s another one of those things that pulls at Bucky’s heart when he thinks about it. They’ll take care of him, teaching him all the kitchen tricks while simultaneously yelling at him like each of them is the boss, and Clint’s comfortable enough at this point that he’ll yell back, and Bucky suddenly wants to slip in at the end of the shift and watch them all interact. There’s something warm and fuzzy about it and Bucky tries to be disgusted, except that he’s so wholly charmed by it.

He starts his morning out in the most advantageous way: waiting until 10:00 rolls around and then starting up a big breakfast. He slices up omelette ingredients: mushrooms pared thin enough to be transparent, peppers in tiny bits, tomatoes chopped fine. Tiny bits of onion and garlic go into the butter, and Bucky lets it sizzle loud, adding ingredients slowly over low heat so that the smell has time to draw Stevie out of his room.

He isn’t disappointed; it’s only 10:15 when Steve emerges from his bedroom. His hair is mussed, peaking high over his left ear, and he’s still wearing a blanket over his head and wrapped around him tightly. He looks at Bucky with something that might be suspicion, assuming it took a good three hours to wake up and remember its own name. Steve is hilarious in the mornings and Bucky will never get tired of it.

“Whazzit-fur,” Steve mumbles as he collapses into one of the stools along their kitchen island. Bucky grins, and goes to pour Stevie a cup of coffee, complete with the splash of his absolutely horrifying _caramel macchiato creamer_ he loves. Steve gives him an appreciative look as Bucky slides the mug over; the look is followed with something that’s about three steps closer to suspicion when Steve recognizes the creamer. He makes another noise that might represent words but Bucky doesn’t even bother to translate these, since he knows he has Stevie at an advantage. To strengthen the advantage he slides over a glass of milk as well.

“This upcoming Monday,” he says, watching as Steve slurps at the caffeine, his eyes not even moving away from the skillet. “Any way I can get you to fuck off from this place for the night?”

“Youvfuskndat,” Steve manages, before he swallows, swears, and swallows again. “You’ve got a fuckin’ date.” The words are slurred, but Bucky acknowledges them, because this early in the morning Stevie’s really making an effort.

“Might,” he says, casually. If he can manage to make it a date, then he definitely wants Steve out of here; if not, then he’ll probably want the evening to himself, to be properly depressed before he resolves to move on. “Nunya, Rogers.” The _nunya-business_ rule has been established between them for at least ten years, and both of them have respected it thus far.

“Mebbe,” Steve allows. Bucky scoops half of the egg scramble onto one plate, the other half onto another; Steve’s plate gets extra cheese and salt, whereas Bucky’s gets extra salsa and jalapeño. He shoves the plates around and they both start eating in a considerably amicable silence. 

“Izzit,” Steve asks, then swallows. “That kitchen dude?”

“Clint,” Bucky corrects, heart in his throat. It feels different to admit it out loud, since it’s just — he hasn’t really told Stevie about the other night, or the _thing_ in the kitchen with the OSHA violation, and he _intends_ to, really, but he’d like to get one formal official fucking date in before he goes and confesses all of his feelings to his best friend.

“Place is yours,” Steve says, but it’s with that particular shit-eating grin he has, and Bucky scowls immediately.

“That don’t mean _stay and watch_ , asshole, it means get clear.” He threatens to dump jalapeños on Steve’s eggs, and the look he gets back might have killed a lesser man. 

“Like I wanna see your. Your. Stupid ass,” Steve mumbles around a mouthful of eggs, and Bucky’s _pretty sure_ he’s won this one, mainly because of the face Steve makes while eating the eggs, but he has to make sure.

“I dunno if it’s date or just hanging out,” he admits, edging the salsa closer to Steve with his elbow as a threat: Stevie hates anything spicy, which makes Bucky laugh a lot, because Steve sometimes tries to project an _image._ “But even if it’s hangin’ out, look, it’ll just be easier for me if the place is open to. Opportunities.”

“Opportunities,” Steve tries to say, but he’s still asleep and his mouth is half-full of egg and cheese and half-full of milk, and it dribbles out of his mouth and Bucky curses his hands for being too slow to get a picture. “Shuthefukkup,” Steve mumbles. “This’s totlyunfare advantamages.”

“Sam’ll have you,” says Bucky, determined to ignore Steve’s morning brain and implant other, better ideas instead. “Hell, Nat’d have you, except that if it goes bad Clint’ll be home later. I can order Pietro and Wanda to put you up, or Scott.” Bucky pauses then, letting his breath drag in. “I could even call Stark’s number, ask if he can distract you.”

Stevie’s response is everything Bucky was hoping for: his eyes go wide, his mouth opens such that he’s dribbling bacon and tomato all over his plate, and he realizes it at the same moment he realizes Bucky’s kidding and all he manages to say is: “Fuck _off,_ ” exceptionally louder and more meaningful than anything else he’s said. Then again — Steve’s confused morning look goes inwards, until the point where he asks Bucky very plaintively, “D’you think Stark would buy me the Stark specials?”

Bucky can’t help laughing, because Stevie’s an idiot; “It’s Monday, you twit,” he says, but then adds, “but I bet any Friday or Saturday you went to sit with him he’d buy you every single special and watch you eat them.” Stark is Stark, but his obsession with Stevie’s arse is one of the funniest things the Red Room is really aware of, and there are at least three betting pools on how Stark will end up asking Steve out that Bucky knows of.

Steve boggles, then grins, then kind of ducks his head shyly and drinks a whole lot of coffee in one long gulp. 

“Monday night,” says Bucky, and he makes sure that Steve meets his eyes and nods. It doesn’t mean that stupid sleepy Stevie is going to remember it for more than thirty seconds; what it means is that Sunday night, Bucky can pressure Steve into making plans somewhere that will make his own plans pan out. If Steve shows signs of balking, he can pretend he’s gonna serve Steve the Stark Meal on Saturday; somehow, Steve always falls for it, no matter what Bucky puts on his plate. The last few weeks have managed to have Clint’s artistic sauce renderings of dicks all over them, but Bucky hasn’t gotten any feedback — so it must be okay, right?

“Buck,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky’s already rolling his fucking eyes at his tone of voice. “S’ alright, Buck, i’s good, I gotchu.”

“Gross,” Bucky tells him, but he’s already making another egg with extra cheese.

———

Then it’s Friday, and for whatever reason Bucky’s a little bit: off his axis; spinning just a few degrees away from the usual, and if this is fuckin’ nerves he’s going to take his good hand and tear out his own spinal column. He planned a great menu: there’s shredded beef for Jamaican tacos in the crockpot, and pork ribeye in a whiskey-peach sauce, and portabellas stuffed with pesto artichokes and roasted red pepper. This is meant to be a _triumph_ night so that he can ask Clint out at the end of the shift, except that half of his brain cells have apparently submerged beneath an ocean of sheer absolute _dumbass,_ and Bucky’s barely hanging onto his own menu schedule as the night opens.

But Clint — but _Clint._

It’s Clint that keeps their performance stable and floating during the first hour or so, while Bucky’s just kind of flickering between stations in _his own goddamn kitchen;_ he isn’t even sure whether or not Clint has picked up on _that,_ but he’s certainly picked up on his own goddamn tasks, and he starts off with garlic and shallots and mangos in a pan for the whiskey-peach sauce and then glances at Bucky - who’s singlehandedly mangling the beef in a way that might be considered shredding, his gaze wide and stupid - before he then starts brushing oil over the portabellas so that they can be easily thrown on the grill.

“Sorry,” says Bucky, as he moves over to check the crockpot and make sure the next one is heated properly: giant cuts of round steak over garlic, allspice, ginger, and his own Jamaican Jerk mix, plus green peppers and onions and banana peppers; they lay it in a corn tortilla with a cabbage-basil slaw and queso fresca. It’s paired with a Hawaiian rice tonight, which isn’t necessarily the most particular pairing culturally, but it’s one of Bucky’s favorites and he’ll serve it when he wants to, thanks.

“Got your back,” Clint murmurs, with a couple heated glances over at Bucky while he’s adding pre-measured ingredients to saucepans and pots. “Just tell me what to do, man.”

And so Bucky ends up working his way out of what could _easily_ have been a panic attack by giving Clint directions, softly and generously, watching as he adds the amount of garlic he wants to dishes and twirls angel-hair pasta in boiling water to build a net beside the portabellas; finally, Bucky regains the stable use of everything, and he manages to produce a set of Caribbean tacos for the Stark table that, he’s told (by a very drunk Tony), make Rhodey want to weep.

It’s maybe the first night they’ve worked as anything near equals. Bucky isn’t saying that idly, nor does he say it with ignorance; Clint still wouldn’t know a dice from a mince if it punched him in the eye, but he managed to prep the best batches of beef for the Instant Pot that Bucky’s ever tasted in his _life,_ and almost all of his pork slabs were cooked perfectly, tender and juicy with sear flavor enhancing the bourbon. Bucky’s almost bothered - although, fuck, he isn’t at all, this is hot as _hell_ \- mainly because he hadn’t realized he was teaching Clint this, and because Clint could probably move on to sous chef at another restaurant without so much - family vibe - and be ultimately successful. 

So it’s even more important when the rush dies down around 1am, and Bucky’s mainly just roasting portabellas and listening to Wanda filling her little mini-pies with cream and fruit, while Pietro and Clint are cackling about something over in the other corner — it’s even more important for Bucky to snag Clint on the sleeve as he comes back over to chop some more celery for the mushroom stuffing, because this has been a… a big night, a night Clint should be proud of, a night to remark upon.

“Can you hang around a bit after?” Bucky murmurs, and he’s desperately watching, so he catches the way Clint’s eyes dilate with want, and the way Clint licks his lips as he nods. “Good.” Bucky reaches out to brush his hand against Clint’s for a second, and then moves on to mix up the stuffing for the mushrooms. 

In the hustle of closing Bucky manages to get a note to Thor, who’s on bar, and there’s an open bottle of wine breathing on the bar once Bucky and Clint are finished cleaning. Bucky’s fixed up some of the pork ribeye - the pieces that were a little too weird-looking, or the pieces Clint burnt - with rice and the pasta, and he brings it out along with two plates and drops it onto the nearest table. There’s no candle, no flowers; it’s just them. Damn, it’s a nice bottle of wine, though; he’ll have to thank Thor, even though he isn’t sure his mouth knows the difference between a $50 bottle of wine and a $10 bottle.

Clint’s grinning; he looks exhausted, which makes sense, since he carried the kitchen today, but it’s a good kind of exhausted like he’d worn himself out doing something important: the wide smile of a man who’d won a battle. He folds himself into the chair across from Bucky and starts shoveling food onto his plate; Bucky is still amazed at the amount Clint can eat if you put it in front of him.

He pours the wine with his good arm and says to Clint, “Hey, I want to say thank you.”

Clint looks up, mouth half-full of the angel hair, and shrugs. Once he’s swallowed, he says, “For what?”

“Well,” Bucky says picking his words carefully. “You pulled _me_ out of a slump tonight. It would have been an absolute mess without you, and you should know that. I’m proud of you _and_ I also really appreciate it. It _has_ been a mess without you, before, and it usually ends with me getting reamed by Natalia, rather than me with a nice glass of wine.”

“Dude,” Clint says, pointing his fork. “ _You’_ ve - you’ve taught me all this - you were pulling _my_ dumb ass out of fires, literally, and have been all these weeks that it’s—” It ends with some sort of frantic gesturing with the fork, and Clint stuffing his mouth full of pork while he looks down at his plate. “No big deal,” he mumbles, around the meat.

“It is a big deal, you fucking idiot,” Bucky says fondly. “Please shut up and take the compliment.”

The way Clint’s eyes flicker up to him, Bucky’s suddenly horribly aware that he’s - fairly accidentally - hit on something that’s incredibly important to Clint, although he doesn’t know _why._ “It isn’t just for tonight,” Bucky continues, “although I wanted to do this tonight, because of how far you’ve come. You’re a huge help in there and if I don’t tell you, I’m a horrible person, and,” he swallows at this, “a horrible friend.”

Clint ducks his head and Bucky watches, fascinated, as a light flush spreads across Clint’s cheeks. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “‘M not good with compliments, man.”

“Okay, then,” Bucky says, and _what the fuck,_ how is he suddenly so smooth and confident and _here_ when two hours ago he was staring at a spatula and couldn’t remember its name? “What about dates, then?”

 _That_ gets Clint’s eyes meeting his with a nearly audible jolt. 

“We’re working all weekend,” Clint says, dumbly, caught off guard. “Stark Night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, patiently, trying to be suave. “But Monday’s our night off next week, and I want to take you to a dinner neither one of us have to make.”

The flush, curiously, deepens. Clint’s wine is gone, Bucky notices, and refills both of their glasses. Clint isn’t saying anything, but his mouth is twitching like it wants to smile and Clint just isn’t letting it go at the moment. 

“There’s a restaurant a little further into downtown,” Bucky tells him, filling the silence, because even with Clint’s staring he feels like he’ll probably get a positive answer. “They do this Cajun-Italian fusion thing? Sounds crazy, but you’re gonna love it. The combination really works, I occasionally steal their weird Cajun cornbread breading and go nuts with it. I want to take you.” It comes out openly honest, and Bucky’s heart gives a little twist inside his chest, as if it wasn’t quite ready for it.

Clint stares, and breathes, and blinks, and then all in one breath he says, “Okay, yeah, let’s, I’d like to, yeah.”

The smile bursts across Bucky’s face before he’s even acknowledged it, and he gets to watch as Clint’s face lights up in return, like someone lighting one candle off of another; Clint looks — not younger, exactly, but the shadows on his face have dissolved into some sort of softness that’s _almost_ vulnerable - he knows Clint hasn’t dropped all of his walls - and he looks less exhausted and more _alive_ in a way Bucky really can’t put words to. Hell, he’s a chef, not a writer. All he knows is that he wants to lean across the table and taste the expression on Clint’s lips, and he must make some gesture, some kind of motion, cause Clint just murmurs, “Yeah, okay,” and stands up. 

Then suddenly Bucky’s lap is full of Clint Barton, except he’s barely noticed the added weight and bulk because Clint’s kissing him: eager, hungry, playful. Bucky’s swept back by it, barely able to think. The joy in Clint’s mouth is entirely different than last time, and Bucky tastes it with his tongue on the other man’s lips, the way Clint’s occasionally laughing against his mouth as he tilts Bucky’s head, hand in his hair, to angle Bucky just the way he seems to want. Bucky could happily play this game for hours, so it’s nothing for him to just follow the gentle tugs of Clint’s hands in his hair - even if he wishes Clint might grip harder, yank at his hair to really plunder his mouth - that doesn’t matter, because some barrier has been dropped, and the taste of Clint enthusiastically going after something he wants is _delicious_ to Bucky’s palate; he wants more: this small sample isn’t even enough. 

As if he wasn’t gone on Clint anyway; this is devastatingly brilliant, and all Bucky wants is more.

It isn’t until Clint peels his mouth away from Bucky’s - only to plant his lips on Bucky’s neck, right below his ear - that Bucky rushes back into himself to realize that he’s hard as steel and grinding just as desperately upwards as Clint is down into his lap. He can feel the tightness of his own pants, his cock straining; he can feel the heat of Clint’s hard dick grinding down into him. Bucky’s nearly in sensory overload; that kissing, that feeling of Clint letting go on top of him, alongside the feeling of just how badly Clint wants him, it just: it’s heady like wine, smoky like whiskey, rich like butter. Savory like garlic. It’s all of Bucky’s tastebuds going off at once.

His hands move to Clint’s hips and encourage them downwards in a filthy grind, which causes Clint to bite at his neck - _delicious_ \- before making a sound that might be an apology. Bucky simply noses at his face until he can get his lips back on Clint’s again, desperate for that mouth, his hands tightening on Clint’s hips. Clint responds with enthusiasm, the one hand in Bucky’s hair tightening to direct the angle of Bucky’s face while Clint’s other hand dips down into the minimal space between them, providing friction and something stable to rub up against.

Bucky’s hips jerk up, and then he’s feeling it a fraction of a second before it happens, and — the chair tips backwards, in some kind of slow motion that should be reserved for a movie, and Clint’s hand comes around to cushion Bucky’s head, keep it from hitting the floor as they fall - Clint a heavy weight on top of Bucky, Bucky’s bones ringing with the impact, nerves on end, and Bucky suddenly feels like if he doesn’t actually come soon he might die on the floor of his own restaurant. 

“Shit,” Clint breathes into his shoulder, “hell, shit, are you alright?”

Bucky starts laughing. It’s probably some small degree the shock of having been tipped over backwards to be slammed into the ground in his own restaurant, but the rest of it is — “God, Clint,” he murmurs into the other man’s hair, his hips rising despite himself, legs wrapping around Clint’s hips in this new position, “never been better.”

“Oh,” Clint manages to get out, before he slides himself a bit forward to disengage the chair and descends on Bucky’s mouth.

This is the floor of the restaurant. This is the hardwood flooring he and Natalia had paid for when they’d bought the building, shining and clean; this is his own space, a place he serves his food to other people. And Bucky hasn’t ever cared less. With his legs wrapped around Clint the movement between them finds a rhythm, deeply wicked; Bucky has one hand in Clint’s short hair and the other on Clint’s ass, finding it’s just as taut and perfect as he’d imagined in those jeans. 

“Buck,” Clint breathes into his neck this time, sounding far beyond composure. “Can I—?”

Bucky hears the question at the end of it, the slight lilt of Clint’s voice, and he pulls his mouth away from where it had been sucking notes into Clint’s shoulder - shirt pulled aside - and says, intelligibly, “huh?”

“Hey,” Clint says, looking down at him, and he’s wearing the most beautiful flush across his cheeks that Bucky’s ever seen. “‘S not that this isn’t good, I’m gonna come in my pants if we don’t - but - I kinda - want to—” Clint sits up just enough that his hands can come to rest at the button of Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky’s brain goes sideways for a long moment thinking about those abs. Clint’s hands move to slowly play at the button. “Can I?”

At this moment in time it doesn’t matter what Clint’s asking for; the answer is a very strong _yes._ Bucky doesn’t care if Clint wants to pull his pants down and blow butterflies into his thighs; he’d manage to come anyway. “Yeah,” he says, getting up on his elbows and relaxing his legs as they fall to the floor. “Whatever you want.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking at him as his hands deftly undo Bucky’s fly. Those long fingers come to tug Bucky’s pants and boxer briefs over his hips, jerky motions with no delicacy, and then Clint’s staring down at Bucky’s cock with some unreadable look on his face and Bucky considers being embarrassed until he considers his cock in Clint’s mouth and has to fall back onto the floor, overwhelmed.

“Can I?” Clint manages to say, and Bucky stammers out, “Y-yes.”

Clint starts with his tongue. Bucky can immediately tell the guy knows what he’s doing — but there’s a different flavor to it, a different feeling, a strange kind of intensity as Clint focuses his attention entirely on the task. His tongue flicks up the bottom of Bucky’s cock and across the tip — but then descends to tease at the crease between Bucky’s hip and groin, and then down lower, flickering against his balls. Bucky cannot help the sound he makes, God help him; Natalia could walk in _right now_ and he’d still be making that noise. It’s unbearably good and he can feel that slow tide already rising, hot and rich, from his core.

“Hell,” says Clint, overwhelmed for only a moment before he bends and sucks Bucky halfway down into his mouth.

“Tease,” Bucky grunts out as Clint’s eyes come up to look at him - Clint’s watching him, watching his reactions, and that’s incredibly hot - and he can feel the smile of Clint’s lips tensing around him before Clint ducks his head and swallows Bucky — _fuck._

Either Clint Barton‘s got no gag reflex, or Bucky’s dreaming, cause he can feel his cock hit the back of Clint’s throat, and Clint swallows reflexively around him and Bucky’s only thought is to not immediately come down his apparently-flexible throat.

 _“Fuck,”_ he manages to say.

Clint drags his mouth off of Bucky’s cock with a slurping noise that can only be deliberate, grins at Bucky as if he’s won employee-of-the-month, and then descends again, down so far deep that Bucky thinks he can feel Clint’s throat muscles working. He can’t even be _sure_ cause he’s never had a blowjob like this: deep and intent and intense, the mood so thick Bucky thinks he could actually believe that Clint enjoys giving head, what with his reactions and the noises he’s making around Bucky’s cock.

Clint’s got both hands on Bucky’s hipbones, holding them in place, and Bucky’s hands are both in Clint’s hair; he isn’t pushing or tugging, he just needs something to hold on to that isn’t proper Red Room furniture, and somehow — _Christ,_ the thought of _that,_ that there will forever be a chair he and Clint Barton knocked over while making out…

“Clint,” Bucky gets out around the sudden tightness in his throat, gripping the man’s hair gently but firmly, hoping Clint gets the message.

He must, because that voracious mouth takes him deep and sucks at him, cheeks hollowing, and Bucky comes with a stricken yell down Clint’s throat, lying sprawled out in the middle of his restaurant’s dining room, gasping for air.

There’s a long moment while Bucky stares at their ornamentally-tiled ceiling, focusing on his breathing, dark spots still bursting in his vision; he feels like his legs would be shaking if he tried to put any weight on them. His hands are. His eyes feel like they aren’t entirely open. Bubbles rise and pop in his vision, correcting for the sudden rush of white that had overtaken all of his senses.

And then Bucky’s sitting up, pulling Clint up, catching him off guard; Bucky licks into his mouth, tasting the faint saltiness that must be his own spend, his fingers fumbling at the fly of Clint’s pants. 

“Shit,” Clint says, suddenly giggling as he tries to suck a bruise into Bucky’s lower lip, “oh my _God,_ your fucking restaurant, Bucky, I’m—”

Bucky tears at the fastening to Clint’s pants as if it has insulted him, and the way he pants - “Can I” - into Clint’s mouth must stop the other man’s hysterical spin, because Clint just makes a noise and claims Bucky’s lips again, frantic and needy.

Bucky works his hand into Clint’s boxers and wraps his fingers around Clint’s dick, which is as hard as iron and hot, already slick with precome, and he repeats, “Can I?” Bucky means to return the favor of Clint’s mouth, wanting nothing more than to taste Clint’s cock on his own tongue, but Clint jerks his hips and says, “Yeah, _yeah,_ just like this, Buck, I’m — I’m _close._ ”

Bucky makes a fist around the thickness of Clint’s cock, and he really only pumps at it a few times before Clint’s making that desperate noise again and coming, spurting all over Bucky’s hand, shuddering through all of his bones with it. Clint’s teeth set into Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky clings onto him with his other hand, his left hand, trying to hold onto Clint’s shirt as the orgasm rips through him. 

Finally he feels Clint stop shaking, and Bucky gives his softening cock a few gentle slides up and down before he removes his hand and - well - wipes it on his own jeans.

“Shit,” Clint breathes, and then — they’re kissing again. It’s less urgent, less needy, but Bucky tastes the same note of happiness on Clint’s lips as he had before, and he can’t stop himself from tasting it, deeply, until they break apart.

Then Clint starts laughing, and Bucky can’t help but join him — they’re here, on the floor of his own fucking restaurant, bare-assed and entwined: a chair knocked over, an almost-empty bottle of wine. 

“Oh my god,” Clint says, and Bucky tucks his laughter into the angle between Clint’s neck and his shoulder, breathing in the scent of the man as if it’s a delicacy wafting out of Wanda’s oven, all savory and sharp. 

“I don’t even believe that just happened,” Clint continues, and Bucky flicks out his tongue to taste at the space before pulling back.

“Never, ever, tell Natalia,” he tells Clint, pretending to be sobered with it — which breaks immediately when Clint bursts with slightly manic laughter and pulls him close.

———

So, Clint thinks up at Natalia’s ceiling, at some faint and tired hour of the night. _A date._

A part of him is elated. Bucky being actually interested in - in someone like him - Bucky making motions to make sure Clint understands that, to take the time to go the formal route instead of just fucking him in the kitchen -- Clint’s mind picks up on that and takes a thoroughly filthy detour through his memories of the night, offering a number of options where Bucky didn’t just reach into his pants and blow Clint’s mind with his hand. He’ll never be able to cook in that kitchen again without getting hard, _fuck_ , the thought of being bent over and fucked across the very sous chef table he’d been trained at -- _fuck._

Clint shakes his head and pulls the blankets up to his chest. He’d done a very dangerous thing tonight, and it’s still catching up with him, random shivers and jolts of panic along his nerves and he can feel the internal urge to run, to pick up his bags and slam open Tasha’s door, to run until he gets to the bus stop and then run anywhere afterwards. His stash has enough that he could run a good distance from this, from the temptation of this security and happiness, this acceptance.

A part of him still can’t believe he let Bucky get so long of a glimpse of his real feelings, but Clint had been high on it, on the entire night of service and on Bucky’s attention and that gloriously rapt smile.

 _I can do a date,_ Clint thinks, all tied up and breathing hard with it. _I just have to be careful. More careful than today._ Because he’d let something loose, today, and he’s afraid to give it free rein, because every single time before his instincts have led him into something horrible. He’ll do it because there’s no way he could have ever said no to that look in Bucky’s eyes - nowhere on _earth_ would he be strong enough to say no - but he’ll watch himself. Watch his step.

Watch his filthy beating heart, watch his breathing, watch the part of his mind looping the past few hours in technicolor glory. Watch his heart. These, here, are dangerous grounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy! Bon appetit!


End file.
